Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY:
This is Part Two of Four of Meticulous. December 1968, Bayswater. Three years before the unidentified victim’s shallow graves were unearthed, a woman matching the description entered Latvia House at 72 Queensborough Terrace, booking into Room 16, as she had done many times before. By the end of the month she would be dead, dismembered and buried in Ashtead Woods. But who was she? December 1968, Bayswater. Three years before the unidentified victim’s shallow graves were unearthed, a woman matching the description entered Latvia House at 72 Queensborough Terrace, booking into Room 16, as she had done many times before. By the end of the month she would be dead, dismembered and buried in Ashtead Woods. But who was she?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a blue bin just above the words 'The Long Water'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: December 1968, Bayswater, West London. 16 miles north of Leatherhead golf course, three years before the unidentified victim’s shallow graves were unearthed, and just one month before her grisly demise, a five-foot four-inch woman of medium build with neck-length dark hair which was greying at the roots, entered 72 Queensborough Terrace where she was known and felt safe. In her hand, she clutched a small suitcase containing some clothes. Latvia House was a slightly shabby but affordable little hostel, which as a place of refuge for London’s Latvian refugees to find shelter during dark times provided a bed for a few shillings with a locked door. Turning the key and sliding the bolt to shield herself from the struggles of her chaotic life, the woman exhaled deeply as she lay on the soft soothing warmth of a bed in the familiar sanctuary of Room 16. Fingering her two silver rings to remind her of a marriage which she once thought was good, before – being beaten blue and bleeding red - she fled to London. And although now alone, she nestled into a reassuring pillow, wearing a navy-blue slip, a pink woollen housecoat and blue carpet slippers. Said to be nervous and highly strung, she spoke little about her life, she often sought solace in a man called Mr Baulins, she regularly drained her sorrows at the bar, and although she would vanish without a trace, no-one reported her missing; not her friends, not her lover and especially not her ex-husband. Tuesday 7th September 1971, two years and nine months later. The three shallow graves at Ashtead Woods told the detectives almost nothing about the sadistic killer who DCS Shemming had described as “a monster”, as with nature having eviscerated every finger or footprint, the killer’s meticulous ways had made him invisible, so to find him, they’d need to find her. Given the insurmountable task of discovering the identity of a faceless woman of unknown origin, the detectives took every tiny clue and exhausted every angle, as each lead was a step nearer to the truth. On Thursday 10th, they handed over the crime scene to Charles Young, a forestry pathologist, an expert in assessing changes in nature, as by examining the soil erosion, fungal growth and the decomposition of the bark, as well as any disruptions to the natural form of the woodland, the damaged root formations of the young tree under which the torso had been buried “deduced that the graves were dug during the non-growing period of 1968/69”. And as a sharp frost bit at the end of December 1968, and – for first the time in years – with it being a white Christmas, the cut marks of the letter ‘N’ which were whittled into the young tree potentially by the killer himself, also came from the same season. With the head wrapped in a barely legible and badly degraded newspaper, Frederick Waller, a librarian at the Evening Standard was able to date the edition to Thursday 5th December 1968, matching the forestry pathologist’s hypothesis, and potentially linking the dead woman to somewhere in London. As the varying states of decomposition had made determining her age almost impossible, one of the legs was shipped to the Smithsonian Institute who’d had good results with a new technique of carbon dating the bones, and they confirmed she was in her late 40s and had been dead for three years. That narrowed down the search for any missing persons and given that – unlike her face – her fingers had barely decayed, and the loops and swirls were untouched, they were able to pull her fingerprints, but as a woman who didn’t have a criminal record, it would prove to be fruitless… at least for now. And with her face unrecognisable owing to skin slippage, corpse wax and feasting insects, a portrait painter and an anthropologist called Roy Reynolds was hired to build a replica of the head and to work out what she may have looked like, as - even without fingerprints - a face can often lead to a name. The details of who she was were becoming clearer, but it was two clues which became the most useful. John Sharp, a ring appraiser, stated that both the wedding and engagement rings were made of white metal and not a more expensive silver, they were designed in a continental style, that the amber stone was stylish but cheaply cut, and that the inscription of ‘835’ inside of the band was a German hallmark. And although the skull had degraded, the jaw had partially collapsed and the teeth were no longer sat in their sockets - having been repositioned by a forensic dentist - prints were made and circulated to every dentists across the country, with enquiries made in Austria, Germany, Switzerland and France. It was now an international investigation, and yet, her identity was discovered a little closer to home. On Wednesday 10th November 1971, just nine weeks after the body was found, Clifford Allen, a dentist from Mansfield in Nottinghamshire recognised the defining characteristics of the teeth, a pattern of six fillings made of mercury, silver, tin, and attributed it to a patient he hadn’t seen since April 1967. Using the electoral roll to identify her former addresses, three friends - Beryl Kuciers, Maria Cirulis and Hella Kurylo, all housewives from Mansfield - recognised the rings, and now the police had a name… …48-year-old Mrs Elenora Essens, who was known as ‘Nora’. Elenora Essens was born in Riga, the capital of Latvia on the 24th of December 1920, with her mother (a housewife), her stepfather (a jeweller) and a younger sister. Little is known of her early life, but with a broken bone having been fixed badly by an unskilled doctor, this left her with a limp to her right leg. As for the rest of her years, it would not be a happy life. In her late teens, she married a Latvian national of Greek origin and became Elenora Vaino, giving birth to two children. Life should have been blessed and she had earned the right to live a good life as happy as anyone else, but it was not to be. As an independent country crushed under the jackboots of German and Russian occupation, by 1941, Latvia was in a persistent state of civil unrest, as amidst a slew of invasions and bombings, some of its people were pro-Nazi, others were pro-Soviet, and – with families often split between fighting for one side or the other – 1000s of Latvians were sent to concentration camps for collaborating with Russians or the Germans, for daring to be independent, for standing up for their country or fighting for neither. Of a population of 1.8 million Latvians in 1939, 90,000 mostly Latvian Jews were killed in concentration camps, and 80-100,000 died during the fighting, including Nora’s husband and her two children. Barely into her twenties, she was a widow, with no home, no job, no money, no husband and no children. With 200,000 Latvian soldiers conscripted to fight for the occupying forces, 100,000 would be killed in battle, and with at least half a million people displaced, being such a small country, by the end of the war, at least a quarter of Latvia’s population had vanished, but for many, the war wasn’t over. As a young single woman, unable to flee owing to a disabled leg, Nora was sent to a displaced person’s camp at Lubek in Germany, as with post-war Latvia now classified a spoil of war for Russia, she couldn’t go home, she couldn’t stay there, and – as one of 50 million refugees – she had nowhere else to go. Living in an era where a woman couldn’t survive without a husband, as a young attractive widow of five foot four inches tall, with dark hair, pale skin, grey/blue eyes, and a curvaceous figure, Nora knew how to use not only her God given attributes to lure in the men, but also her flirtatious alluring ways. Post-war, with the supply lines decimated, Nora’s sexuality was a currency for many a lonely man who – for the price a sweet word, a little kiss and maybe something more – could buy her food, clothes or medicine, anything she needed as a single woman, as this wasn’t prostitution, this was survival. In 1946, at a registry office in Lubek, having found love either through need or necessity, Nora married fellow Latvian, Aleksander Essens, and – although both were broke – to cement their union, on her left hand she wore a white metal ring with amber stones, and a wedding band with the hallmark 835. By 1947, granted British work permits, Aleksander and Nora moved to Nottingham… …and although she had escaped a certain death, she would soon face another. Getting work as a hospital cleaner in York, Market Harborough, Full Sutton and Worksop, later moving to Mansfield General, she stopped working in 1948 following a bout of appendicitis, and - as her many scars would show – a full hysterectomy in 1959 and a hernia operation in 1960 left her plagued with frequent sickness and chronic pain. And although, as Aleksander, her husband would state “apart from the fact that my wife could not have children, our marriage was quite happy and normal…”, it wasn’t. Whether this was the point at which Nora stopped trusting men in uncertain, as although she was still very flirtatious with many-a handsome stranger, she had become increasingly neurotic and possessive. In 1950, Nora & Aleksander Essens moved into a ground floor flat at 48 Armstrong Road in Mansfield. Aleksander told the police, “we used to have rows, but only slight ones”, which wasn’t true in the slightest, as Alexander Vanags, their recently separated Latvian lodger knew only too well, as the walls were painfully thin and their voices were earsplittingly loud. Later in a police statement he would say “the main reason for the breakdown of their marriage was his habitual drunkenness… this led to many violent quarrels. At least once, he beat her up and she was admitted to hospital for treatment”. As a trusted friend to both of them who was quiet, kind and bookish, “Nora”, Alec Vanags would state “hoped that my presence in the house would stop her husband from beating her…” – the problem being that being only small and slightly built - in the summer of 1956, “he kicked her out of the house in a fit of drunken anger, I tried to restrain him from attacking her, but I was only partly successful”. Nora’s face was often a patchwork of blacks and blues, so often seeking solace in other men, it was no surprise that - with her husband in an affair and having a child with a local widow called Helen Singh – that Nora, being in a need of a man who could and would treat her well, that she fell for Alec Vanags. Despite him being six-years younger than her, unlike her violent and drunken spouse, Alec was sweet, sober, hard-working and softly-spoken, a miner who dreamed of working as an aviation researcher and being fluent in four languages was trying to better himself by getting a well-paying job as a translator. In a slightly fudged and painfully rose-tinted view of his marriage to Nora, Aleksander told the police “my wife and I were still quite happy with each other… but as she and Alec grew closer together, we grew apart”. Only again this was not the truth, as although they had split, the violence continued. On Wednesday 31st of July 1963, as a premonition of how horrible her life could be, the Nottingham Evening Post reported ’Uncle thrashed two boys with a rope… pleading guilty to two summonses, Aleksandris Essens (39) was fined £5 for causing bodily harm to Graham Singh (aged 13) and Geoffrey Singh (aged 12)’ – these were the sons of Helen Singh, the woman he was having an affair with. That Christmas, still living together (as owing to her medical pain, Nora was unable to work) he’d state “we had a big row. It ended up with me hitting my wife. I was fined £5 at Mansfield Magistrates Court and ordered to pay her £5 per week as maintenance”. Having had enough, Nora packed up, she moved out, Alec Vanags found them a little flat, and she began a better life with a good man who loved her. Records confirm the court case occurred on 2nd of February 1964, of which Aleksander Essens claimed “that was the last time I saw her” - six years before her death and 156 miles north of Leatherhead. She had moved on with her life, and - apparently - he had moved on with his… …but he did try to contact her twice. Questioned by the police, he would state “in September 1969, I wanted to claim sickness benefit. I went to the Social Security Office to try and locate her. I was told that she was at 72 Queensborough Terrace in Bayswater…”, a place known as Latvia House, “I did not go to the address and have never visited there”, which the Police could neither prove nor disprove. And then, “in February 1970, I began to make enquiries through a solicitor to trace her to start divorce proceedings and query the maintenance money I gave her” - £5 per week or £75 today, which wasn’t a tiny sum for a coal miner with five kids to feed – “I was told it had accumulated” to the equivalent of £5600, a quarter of the national wage, “as my wife had not claimed it since the Christmas of 1968”. It didn’t strike him as odd? That an unemployed widow, unable to work owing to pains hadn’t collected her main source of income beyond a pitiful state benefit for over a year. And yet, he didn’t chase it up, he didn’t ask her friends, he didn’t go to the police, and - importantly – he didn’t report her missing. But why? Had she been able to see beyond the torment of her past, it would have been clear to Nora that Alec Vanags was a man a million miles away from swinging fists and fiery temper of her ex-husband. As a five-foot five-inch ex-miner who was blind in one eye and registered disabled owing to an injured back, the only anger Alec ever showed was mild frustration at himself when he couldn’t finish a crossword. But trauma always leaves long scars, and trust can take a long time to rebuild. In 1967, moving to London to start a new life, in the February, Alec fulfilled his dream by becoming an Aviation & Military Editor at MacDonald & Co publishing at 49 Poland Street, Soho, specialising in the analysis of aircraft and warships using documents which he translated from Polish and Russian to English, with his first book – Rocket Fighter: The Messerschmitt 163 by Mano Ziegler – still in print. Earning a solid wage of £2400 per year, as a refugee, finally he could indulge his passion by filling the many neat and orderly bookshelves in his home with aviation reference books in an alphabetical order, as well as being able to afford to rent a decent flat in a good part of town for Nora and himself, and as a symbol of his love, he regularly bought her gifts – earrings, dresses, fur coats and a 9 carat gold ring. As a battered husband to a brutal wife whose conviction had led their children being put into care, Alec too was a victim running away from a bad marriage. Seeking to rebuild the shattered remains of his family, he’d begun to correspond with his daughter Linda and repair the damage of the past. Linda would state of her estranged father “he made a terrific fuss of me and showed me off to all his friends”. The future looked rosy, but for Nora, she only saw darkness. By June 1967, they were living in a pleasant little self-contained flat at 22 Tabor Court in Cheam, which was neat, clean and secure. “I tried hard to make a go of it”, Alec said “but was not very successful”. As she had done all too often in Mansfield, Nora vanished without any rhyme nor reason. Worried, Alec always reported her missing, “but often leaving the flat for days at a time, and once for a week, I do not know where she went, or where she stayed”, and then, without warning, she would come back. Seeing her mentally decline, Alec’s boss at the publishers put him in touch with Dr Doreen Stracey, a psychiatrist, “which he did for Nora and I at the firm’s expense. Unfortunately the visit was not helpful, and being most scathing about the whole thing, Nora laughed about it”. He tried, he always tried. Again, as a woman with no work, no family, and no hobbies to occupy her mind and calm her anxieties, plagued by her past and burdened by a jealous streak – being left alone for hours on end in an empty flat as her besotted boyfriend earned an honest crust for them both – Nora got sicker and sicker. In August 1968, as if fate had spited her, whilst crossing the street, Nora was hit by a motor scooter. Rushed to Charing Cross Hospital, luckily an x-ray showed she had no breaks nor fractures, but as a partially disabled woman whose right leg already had a limp, even though she barely existed on a cocktail of strong pain killers and sleeping pills, for her it was painful to stand and crippling to walk. Across the month, Nora was bedbound for days on end, plagued by pain day and night. As a good man full of love for the woman he adored, Alec hated seeing Nora like this, so it was no surprise that – although disabled himself, being a man described as “a gentle, very honest, honourable, contentious, meticulous and always very punctual” – that in those last months, he was often her live-in carer. By September, with her pain not subsiding, Alec moved them from their second floor flat in Cheam to Kendall Villa on Sutton Lane, as owned by Dr Doreen Stracey, a ground-floor flat directly opposite the soothing greenery of Turnham Green and barely a short stagger from the shops of Chiswick High Road. As a homely little flat with a kitchen, a bathroom, a sitting room and a bedroom with twin beds, they settled in without blinking, decorating it with family photos, mementos of Latvia and – as a bookworm who devoured intricate details about the payload capacity of an Arado AR234 jet bomber or how the Heinkel HE112 consisted of 26,864 rivets, which Nora rolled her eyes at – he had shelves for his many reference books, a place for his military regalia, a broken air-pistol (which – as a practical man - he planned to fix one day), and a neatly organised toolbox for all of those little jobs which needed doing. It should have been the perfect flat for both of them, he kept it clean, he made her meals, his wage was just enough, and his sympathetic employer let him leave his work early when he needed to. But as a frequently bedbound woman who was plagued by past, Alec was so used to Nora leaving him, that he stopped querying the packed suitcase she kept by her bed, as he knew that, when she was ready and only when she was ready, she would always come back to him. …only one time, she didn’t. As witness to her life with a violent ex-husband and her last known sighting alive, Alec told the police, “a few days later she disappeared again and didn’t arrive back until after two weeks. When I asked where she had been she said she had stayed with a Greek fellow in Sutton, but gave me no details”. The sicker she got, the more she fled without reason, as Alec stated “she disappeared again. I reported her missing at Chiswick Police Station”. Records show that Alec reported Elenora missing at 9:15pm on 5th of November and 21st of November 1968, at which, an officer came to the flat and took details, but as always, Nora returned, exhausted but unharmed. “Nora turned up after ten or twelve days and I went to the police station and told them she was home”, as verified by a constable and her records. But Nora was not happy. “After the constable left, there was a terrific row when Nora accused me of reporting her to the police. She told me never to do it again”. And although he cared for her, for Nora, it was the straw that broke the camel’s back. At the start of December 1968, just weeks before her death, Nora moved into Room 16 of Latvia House in Bayswater, a little room she had stayed at before, where she felt safe and warm. What she had run away from wasn’t him but her past. And knowing that he was a good man who loved her without question and hoped one day that they’d be happy, they spent Christmas together. The final time she left him was on Sunday 29th December 1968. He told the police, “Nora left me the day before I went back to work. I got up, made coffee, I took her a cup in bed, I said ‘good morning’, she did not answer”. She just lay there, a frown on her face, dressed in her comfortable bedclothes – a navy blue slip, a pink woollen housecoat and blue carpet slippers. “I shaved and washed, did some washing up, and then when I went into the sitting room, she was putting on her make-up”, it was about 10:30am, “she was dressed in a pattern-coloured dress and good shoes. I asked her if she was going out. She told me she was leaving for good” and he knew this was coming. “I told her I did not want to witness her going and so I left the flat and went for a walk”. The day was bitterly cold, as with a biting winter frost having settled, and for the first time in years, it being a white Christmas, “I put a coat on and I walked to the Gunnersbury roundabout, then to Kew Bridge. I stood on the bridge for a short time, then walked back the same route via the Chiswick flyover… when I returned to the flat it was getting dark”, roughly 4:40pm, “and Nora had gone”. (End) “She had left various dresses, a fur coat and two or three pairs of shoes I had bought for her. In fact, all the things I had bought for her were thrown on the bed and the floor. I stayed in all evening and read. I felt nervous, but I did not believe she had left me for good, because she had left me before”. As always, she had left no note and never said where she was going. “She had taken a soft suitcase, some clothes and all her make-up. To the best of my knowledge, she was dressed in a powder blue-grey coat with a real fur collar, the fur was dark brown, and she was carrying a dark blue handbag”. “The next day, as usual, I went to work and hoped she would return”. As each day passed, he said he visited the places he thought she might be, but as a private woman who rarely spoke about her life, he assumed – as were her threats – that she had left him for good. Upon the discovery of her name and her former address at 48 Armstrong Road in Mansfield, her brutal and abusive ex-husband Aleksadner Essens was questioned at length by the detectives. As a man with a history and a conviction for violence against her, he was their number one suspect. But with it proven that he had never visited her in London, that he had never been to Leatherhead, that he was at home in Mansfield during the time of her murder, and that he didn’t know that she was staying at Latvia House until eight months after her death, which he didn’t learn about until he read it in the papers… …Aleksadner Essens was ruled out as the murderer of Nora. But one man was not. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-NINE:
This is Part One of Four of Meticulous. On Wednesday 1st Sep 1971 at 3:40pm, on the 10th hole of Leatherhead golf course, a human forearm and fist was found. As one of many pieces of an unidentified woman, whose body had been dismembered and buried in the dense woodland surrounding it, this began one of the most baffling and fascinating murder cases in British legal history.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a purple symbol of a bin at the bottom, near the word 'Epsom'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Sunday 29th August 1971. Britain. Since the year’s turn, Britain had seen eight months of chaos; with the postal workers on strike, Rolls Royce in bankruptcy, Northern Ireland a political powder keg, terrorist bombings the norm, 66 people killed at Ibrox stadium, elected racist Enoch Powell still banging about ‘rivers of blood’, unemployment at its highest level since the end of the second world war, and yet, the most talked about news story was bad-boy showjumper Harvey Smith being stripped of his medal for flicking a ‘v’ sign at the judges. The country was full of strikes, riots and protests, as the rich got richer, and the poor got poorer. But in Leatherhead, 16 miles south of London, everything was tranquil, as 47-year-old groundskeeper Norman Stones kept the greens and fairways of Leatherhead golf club pristine and immaculate. With 15 years under his belt, Norman kept to a strict routine. He’d state “as the greenskeeper’s hut is close to the 10th hole bunker, I finished up my weekend duties, arrived at the bunker at 7:40am, I raked it over, and finished off the 10th green”. Being two hours after dawn, the club was opening in minutes, and with the weather predicted to be 26 degrees with barely any wind, the course would be busy. “On the front crest of the centre of the bunker, I found lying there a bone, about 18 inches long, which was covered in dirt. I recall it having a knuckle at one end and a smaller knuckle at the other”. Having been stripped of meat, cartilage and skin, with the ends gnawed as a hungry beast had feasted on the juicy marrowbone inside, “I guessed some fox had had a good meal”, as with August being the month when the tods and vixens leave their litter of cubs to fend for themselves, it was just another bone. A big bone. Maybe a deer? Maybe a dog? But with his shift ending, a brew on and hearing the slow roar of Bentleys, Mercs and Beamers pulling up outside of the club house, “I threw it away into the rough on the right of the bunker” and thinking nothing more of it, Norman Stones headed home. It was a good day to play golf, as was the following Monday and the Tuesday. But nearby, a fox was still famished. (fox call) Comprising 130 acres of lush greens and tamed roughs, Leatherhead Golf Course isn’t the kind of place any old pleb could wander into by mistake, as with the nearest train station 1 ½ miles south, the only road being the A243 Chessington to Leatherhead, and outside, an infrequent bus stop serving the golf course’s workers and any walkers on Ashtead Common, the average 18-hole game is unlikely to be disturbed by a family picnic, a rogue football landing on the fairway, or a dog taking a dump on a tee. Surrounded by no flats, shops or car parks, the only houses are a smattering of millionaire’s mansions on the exclusive Pachesham Estate and being encircled by a thick dense woodland of tightly packed trees and rough spiky shrubs, the course itself is not only private and secluded but often impenetrable. At 1pm, being a member, Dennis Harold O’Flynn, a dentist from nearby Fetcham pulled in and parked up. He had a drink, a light bite to eat, as he planned to spend the next four hours playing 18 holes. On Wednesday 1st September 1971 at 3:40pm, Dennis was on the fairway of the 9th hole. With a good clean stroke, his ball landed about 100 yards (roughly 300 feet) from the 10th fairway. Only his eyes weren’t focussed on the little white orb he had whacked a good distance, but the obstacle beside it. Stopping dead, Dennis stated “at first, I thought it was a limb of an animal”. Not being a gnawed clean bone like Norman had found barely 200 feet away, but a limb with skin, sinew and meat. “I turned it over with my foot to see what it was”, only this wasn’t a piece of a slaughtered beast, but a human’s. At 40 centimetres long, although this left forearm and fist once weighed about 2 and a ½ kilos, it now weighed a kilo less, as with strips of soiled flesh having been ripped away, what remained was a rotten length of partially decomposed meat and bone, which wreaked of the rancid smell of fetid cabbage. It had once belonged to a woman, who had a life and loved one’s who were very possibly grieving over her disappearance, at least that was the initial suspicion, as although each decaying digit was caked in dirt, the nails were neatly manicured, brightly coloured, and on her fourth finger were two silver rings. Alerting the Police, Dorking CID sealed off the golf course, and with Inspector Brian Richardson and the scenes-of-crime officer PC Raymond Woodman arriving at 7:35pm, as the slowing dimming sun made it too dark to do anything useful, the fist and forearm were removed for preservation. That night, a memo was faxed to all UK Police forces, stating ‘part of a white female was discovered at Leatherhead. At present, the identity is unknown, and it is requested that statements be obtained from the parents or guardians of all white female missing persons over the age of 15 years, including full descriptions and particulars of any jewellery worn’. Details were vague, but that’s all they had. No-one was saying it was murder, as with it possibly being a prank by a medical student, a misplaced biohazard bag from a hospital, or an issue with a freshly dug grave, they could do nothing till morning. Thursday 2nd September 1971. Dawn. Headed up by Detective Chief Inspector Phillip Doyle of Dorking and Leatherhead CID, given the likelihood that there could be more body parts or pieces strewn across the area, a search team of police officers, sniffer dogs and volunteers was established, as although the golf course itself comprised of 130 acres, the wider area of dense woodland and impenetrable scrubs on Ashtead Common was three times larger, the equivalent of 330 football pitches… only full of thick nettles, boggy ditches and fallen trees. At the same time, in the mortuary at Epsom Hospital, Dr Peter Pullar, the Home Office Pathologist examined the deceased’s left forearm and fist as found the day before. With no birthmarks, no scars and no tattoos, there was no way to identify her. With no signs of any disease or marks of self-defence, how she had died was impossible to tell. And with the limb still in a state of decomposition, but having been recently extricated from a grave, they didn’t know when she had died or when she was buried. With very little skin slippage, her fingerprints were legible, but being an era before the police database was computerised, it would be a monumental task to link this fingerprint – if they even had her in their files – to a missing woman of unknown age, height, weight or origin, who had died somewhere in Britain, Europe or even further still, at any time between the last few weeks, months or even years. Without more information, the best piece of evidence they had was her rings. That day, most local and regional newspapers published the following details: ‘two rings are the vital clue that may identify a woman whose hand and forearm were found last night near the tenth hole of Leatherhead golf course. Ring No 1 is of plain silver-like white metal and on the inside is inscribed 835. Ring No 2 is also of plain white metal with a circular concave amber stone set in tiny diamantes’. It was a long shot, as with several women having recently gone missing in this area alone, any hint at who this woman might have been was a step closer to giving her grieving family peace, and this woman a proper burial. But as Detective Chief Inspector Doyle would bluntly state, "the rings are very important for identification, but at the moment, I am more interested in finding the rest of her body”. It may sound callous, but with her remaining parts potentially exposed to the elements… …it was a race against time before any evidence was destroyed forever. That day, as 38 police tracker dogs combed a square mile of young forest and rough scrub surrounding the 10th hole, just 150 yards from the spot where the fist and forearm were found, the dogs sniffed out a partially chewed seven-inch fragment of a female human tibia, stripped clean by wild animals. Later that day, groundskeeper Norman Stones directed the police to a spot stating “I forgot it until the morning I read about an arm being found on the 10th fairway”, assuring the detectives, “I’d been there on the Saturday and the bone” – determined to be a female’s right femur – “wasn’t there at 7:40am”. So far, all they had was pieces, a left forearm and a fist, and two bones from a right leg. Then at 5pm, across the Leatherhead/Chessington Road, in a patch of dense trees in Ashtead Wood, barely 20 yards in from the bus stop, scenes-of-crime officer PC Woodman found a very shallow grave. Having been unearthed by the feverish claws of ravenous foxes lured to the spot by the scent of decay, lay a grip holdall with a zip. Having already feasted on a right leg, and possibly dropped the left forearm having been spooked, in the bag lay a right arm in two sections, the remaining parts of a right leg, and a left leg from the hip to the foot dissected in two, which was still wearing a size 4 blue carpet slipper. Examined on site by Dr Pullar, he confirmed that each limb had been dissected using a hacksaw at an angle of roughly 45 degrees, but rather than cutting through hard bone and rubbery sinew, they had been severed at the weakest part, the joints, which were only held together by muscles and ligaments. So did the person who dismembered her have a knowledge of biology or butchery? Each limb found in the holdall was meticulously wrapped in a generic plastic sheeting and secured by white commonly available string, bound several times and tied in a simple granny knot. This wrapping had delayed the decomposition of the limbs, which thus posed the question, was this to ensure that the rotting body would never be found, or to make it more difficult to work out when she had died? None of the limbs showed signs of dislocations or breaks, and although all of the fingernails were clean and unbroken, the delicate bones of her fractured hand showed the subtle signs of defensive wounds. Somehow, somewhere, this unidentified woman had suffered a violent death. But who was she, how had she died, and why had someone gone to great lengths to dismember and disguise her corpse? Monday 6th September 1971, four days later, at 10:50am, a second grave was found. As part of the volunteer search team, Edward Henry Churcher was a 71-year-old homeless man who had spent 30 years sleeping rough in Leatherhead. Described as a recluse with a great knowledge of Ashtead Woods, he told the police, “I noticed a gap in a path, I spotted a depression in the soil, started prodding and when I moved away the top earth”, a few inches of leaf mould, “I saw a woman’s torso”. Amidst the dense woodland and just 15 yards from the first grave, at just 36 inches wide by 30 inches long by 16 inches deep, this grave was shallower than the first, as whoever had dug it had struggled to dig through the fibrous roots of a young tree it was buried below. And yet still, she was buried here. But if her killer had been so careful to dismember the body parts into individual chunks, why had they buried the limbs and the torso in two separate graves, but situated them both so close together? As with the limbs, she’d been wrapped in a polythene sheet and tied with string, only instead of being found in grip holdall with a zip, the torso was hidden inside a dark hessian sack, now badly degraded. Again, severed at the shoulder joints and the neck at the 6th and 7th cervical vertebrae at a 45-degree angle using either an 18 or 22 bladed hacksaw (a tool commonly found in any most hardware shops), scars made it clear that she had once had an appendectomy, and at some point, a full hysterectomy. Based on the weight and size, the pathologist determined this was the torso of large breasted woman of medium build. Having recently shaved her armpits that maybe she was in a relationship. And that – along with the slipper – with her still wearing a bra, a navy-blue slip and a pink woollen housecoat, it was likely she had died in a place she was comfortable in, maybe her own bed? Once again, there was nothing in the grave to identify her; no purse, no papers and no personal items. And yet, at chest height, on the tree underneath where her torso had been buried, using a penknife, the letter ‘N’ had been carved. But was this a clue, or was her killer deliberately taunting the police? All they had was pieces of a puzzle, and they were no closer to finding out who she was. Monday 6th September 1971, that same day, at 3:40pm, a third grave was found. Using the same technique that homeless recluse Edward Churcher had used to find the second grave, just 15 yards further into the dense woodland and under a few inches of decaying moss and leaves, PC Robert Duck unearthed a package. Inside the remains of a rotten cardboard box, it hadn’t been wrapped in plastic and bound in string, but swathed in a copy of the Evening Standard… was a head. So serious had the investigation become that Detective Chief Superintendent Peter Shemming of the Scotland Yard Murder Squad was called in to impart his expertise, as Dorking wasn’t a murder hotspot. With the head severed at the 6th and 7th vertebrae using a small-bladed hacksaw at a 45-degree angle which matched the wounds on the torso, this was very clearly from the same woman. But along with the newspaper, with the skull not wrapped in air-tight plastic, but the very permeable material of a fawn woollen cardigan and an orange cotton tea towel, the head was mummified and unrecognisable. But was this deliberate? As with her skin having putrefied into a waxy sheen and her eyes having been eaten by maggots, most of her features had rotted away, so all they could tell was that she was a white female, likely in her forties, with several fillings, neck length brown hair with strands of grey, and with a circular depressed fracture at the back of the skull, she had been brutally bludgeoned to death. Someone had hated her, as in a fit of rage and anger, they had repeatedly smashed in her skull until a massive brain haemorrhage had left her paralysed, and at her killer’s sadistic whim, they sliced her up. Her death was slow, painful and terrifying, as she would have been unable to shout or even scream. Based on her savage wounds and exacting disposal, DCS Shemming described her killer as ‘a monster’. And yet, inside of each grave, this monster had laid red roses. On Tuesday 7th September 1971, even though her right leg, part of her left arm and a little finger was missing, an autopsy of what remained of the unknown woman was conducted at Epsom Mortuary. These pieces were a patchwork of body parts in varying states of decay, with the pathologist stating of the skull “…when the polythene sheeting was removed as well as the wrapping of a shirt, a cardigan and a tea towel, the presence of adipocere”, an anaerobic bacteria which putrefied the fatty tissues of her face, “the skin had completely deteriorated with its consequent loss of any facial features”. The details they had were vague at best; a white, possibly European middle-aged female, of average height (five foot four), average weight (eight stone) and a common blood group (O Negative) who’d had several operations in the last two decades, which – based on the scars – occurred in a hospital. Of the clothes she was found wearing or wrapped in, even if the labels hadn’t degraded beyond the point of being legible, the clothing was so commonplace, it was impossible to identify her by those. Miraculously, her killer’s scrupulous sealing of the torso and limbs in plastic “had a preservative effect which retained the flesh in an excellent condition, as there were no signs of decomposition”. Therefore – unusually – the pathologist was able to take blood, hair and liver samples, vaginal and anal swabs, as well as determining that, based on the contents of her stomach, the last meal she ate was eggs. But even these new clues only led to dead ends, as there were no additional signs of assault or injury, she hadn’t been drugged or poisoned, and with no semen or sexual violence, she hadn’t been raped. Blood was found under her fingernails and although human there was too little to determine its group. Based on the mummification of the head, she had been buried for at least two years. And although the hessian sack in which the torso was found contained traces of coal dust, iron ore and red oxide, similar sacks were found nearby, which her killer may have used to throw detectives off the scent. An identification, at that point, was impossible. Closer examination determined that death occurred owing to a three-inch depressed fracture at the back of the skull “with extensive fragmentation of the bones extending towards the face. To cause the injuries… it would have been necessary to deliver multiple blows, at least three and probably more, with at least a moderate force” using a flat blunt object of indeterminate origin. And consistent with the bedclothes she was found in, “they were probably sustained while the deceased was lying down”. But what kind of a monster would attack a woman in her own bed; only to slice her up, remove her ID but not her jewellery, destroy her eyes but not her teeth, neatly package her limbs but not her head, and then bury her severed body parts in three separate but shallow graves within yards of each other with a bunch of red roses, and then cut - what may have been - the first initial of her name into a tree? The detectives suspected they were dealing with someone who was clever, patient and methodical. A devious and cunning killer whose severe lack of empathy made him capable of committing such an abhorrent act, only to taunt the officers by seeming to leave clues, yet deliberately destroying others. But who was this monster? What about the greenskeeper, Norman Stones? A criminal who’d spent 36 months in prison, with his last conviction being just ten month prior. A solitary man who spent hours alone, knew every ditch on the golf course, had a toolshed by the 10th hole bunker full of spades, pickaxes and hacksaws, and was the first person to claim he had found a bone four days before the fist and forearm, only to toss it into the rough and only come forward when it became national news, and the first grave was discovered. What about Edward Churcher? The elderly homeless recluse whose remarkable knowledge of Ashtead Woods helped the police find a second grave under inches of leafy moss, across an impenetrable 438-acre site, within a few days. A lonely man with a need for acceptance and recognition, having spent a total of 14 years in prison for burglary, theft, possession of an offensive weapon, and eleven convictions for the indecent sexual assault of both boys and girls, with some of them as young as 8. Or what about the undiscovered murderer of Roy Tuthill, a 14-year-old whose body was found three and a half years earlier, two miles south and on the same stretch of road which passes the Leatherhead golf course? Was this a coincidence, or was a serial-killer in the midst? Every suspect was considered, but after through questioning and providing a traceable alibi, all of them would be ruled out. (End) The detectives were left with a seemingly unsolvable mystery, an unidentifiable body buried in a series of undatable shallow graves, having been murdered swiftly but dismembered slowly. The site itself was so impenetrable, even though a busy road was just 15 yards away, there were no witnesses to the crime, and after several years being foraged by foxes, feasted by insects and battered by wind and rain, although it retained no fingerprints or footprints, it was unlikely she was dismembered there. Like a needle in a haystack, the police were seeking a woman, maybe a local or maybe a foreigner who was possibly in an abusive relationship with – most likely - a violent man who had no regard for human life. A depraved killer with no care for the loved one’s who grieved her loss and prayed for her return, and an immoral brute with a bloodlust for cruelty, butchery skills, and a thirst to taunt the police. With no idea who she was, the police had no idea who he was, if indeed, he was even a ‘he’. Dubbed “a monster” by DCS Shemming, given the lack of evidence at the scene linking to the killer or the prey, as the only reason the graves were found was because a fox got hungry, all they were certain of was that in everything this callous killer did, he was always calm, controlled… and meticulous. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-EIGHT:
This is Part Three of Three of Coldblooded. On Saturday 7th October 1944 at 2:15am, 34-year-old taxi-driver George Edward Heath drove his recently loaned grey V8 Ford Sedan east along Hammersmith Road. Forty minutes later, he would be dead. But why was George killed, for revenge, for sport, for money, or something stranger?
THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Coldblooded – Part Three. Friday 6th October 1944, roughly 3:30am. Runneymede Park by the Bell Weir Lock. 16 miles south of Hammersmith, 4 miles west of Knowles Green and just 90 minutes after the bungled taxi heist on the Kilburn High Road, the bleeding and motionless body of Violet Mae Hodge floated in the River Thames. Manually strangled and callously dumped into the dark bitter waters, this 18-year-old waitress had been lured by a wannabe gangster who was too eager to impress his excitable gun-moll in what would – effectively be - a dry run in 24-hours’ time for the callous and coldblooded murder of George Heath. Attacked in an isolated spot where no-one would hear her cries, she was targeted for the sake of her meagre possessions, and as her screams were constricted by a brute’s tightening grip, before she lost consciousness, her last memory was calling out for “Georgie”, only to hear the laugh of an evil sadist. When arrested, Georgie would claim that she was innocent, that she was just a young naïve girl forced to witness the crimes of an escaped maniac with a violent past, out of excitement and of fear. But was Ricky pressured by a desire to impress Georgie, or was she the real psychopath who goaded him to kill? Her real name was Elizabeth Maud Baker. Although no-one ever knew the real girl, as to some she was ‘Betty’, to others she was ‘Marina’, on stage she was Georgina Grayson, but to Karl she was ‘Georgie’. Georgie was born in Skewen, a small mining village near the town of Neath in South Wales on the 5th of July 1926, to Nellie, a housewife, and Arthur, a labourer. Described as a decent hardworking family who were clean and law-abiding, being showered with love and as the apple of her daddy’s eye, she should have wanted for nothing. But being immature and needy, she was a constant source of worry. As a young girl, she’d always dreamed of glamour and fame wanting to be a dancer or an actress, and loving gangster flicks so much that from an early age she started speaking in a broad New York accent. Aged 3, she uprooted with her beloved daddy to the city of Woodstock, Ontario in Canada, where he worked as a farmer, but with the Great Depression biting deep, by the age of 7 she was back in Neath. Educated at Gnoll School for Girls and Alderman Davies’ School in Neath, she frequently absconded and ran away from home three times. Not because of abuse or neglect, far from it, as with her father having enlisted in the Royal Artillery and posted to Carmarthen, she couldn’t cope when he was away. In 1935, her parents called the police when 9-year-old Georgie complained that she’d been “interfered with by a man”, and although the police investigated thoroughly, no-one was arrested, charged nor suspected. Yet in her teens, her headmistress described her as “a habitual liar who was fond of men”. As a daddy’s girl who got away with everything, in February 1940, aged just 14, she absconded from home having stolen her mother’s money. Found in Swansea, she accused a local man of having sex with her, and although Phillip Hill was charged on two counts, he was later acquitted as she was proven to be a virgin, and she admitted that the allegations against him “were without any foundation”. Three weeks later, Police found her drunk and slumped in a gutter claiming she’d been indecently assaulted. Unable to control her, she absconded again, and on the 30th of May 1940 at Neath juvenile magistrates court, she was charged under the First Schedule of the Children & Young Persons Act 1933. It wasn’t stated what crime she had committed, but it was either “a suicide attempt”, or “the assault of a child”. Removed to Northenden Road Approved School in Cheshire where unruly girls were sent instead of prison, again, her next headmistress said she was “a born liar”, and this became a hallmark of her life. To her fellow students, she claimed she’d won a scholarship, but proven to be of average intelligence, out of 300 possible marks awarded for her schoolwork, she only got a substandard score of 90. Released on licence to her home in September 1942, aged 16, her mother struggled to control her and although she claimed to be good and innocent, Neath Police stated she was “strong willed woman of very loose morals”. Therefore, marriage should have been the making of her, and although on the 25th of November 1942 she married a serving soldier named Stanley Jones at Neath Registry Office, just one day later, she cheated on him while claiming “he was a prisoner of war while fighting in Arnhem”. Elizabeth, known as ‘Betty’, alias Georgina Greyson lived a life of lies, theft and deception… …and desperate fame and glamour, in 1943, she fled to London. It defies belief, but while one a half million civilians fled the war-ravaged bomb-cratered city of London for the safety of distant Welsh towns like Neath, Georgie headed smack-bang for the danger zone. After several odd jobs as a chambermaid, a barmaid and as a waitress at Paul’s café in Queen Caroline Street, Hammersmith – where she met ‘Harry’, an old War Reservist who became her friend and father figure - she claimed “I worked as a cabaret dancer and a strip tease artiste” at venues like The Panama Club in Knightsbridge and the Blue Lagoon in Carnaby Street. Only there was no evidence to prove it. Living in lodgings across the smoking ruins of West London, on 19th June 1944, two weeks after D-Day, Georgie’s mother received a telegram, in which she wrote “mummy, I’m fine and lucky to be alive”, as her lodging on Edith Road had been bombed and reduced it to a blackened shell. Like many she had survived, and she wore the bandage on her leg with pride… only this was a lie for cash and sympathy. In May 1944, Georgie was arrested for being in possession of stolen goods, which were rationed and vital as war supplies, such as chocolate, eggs, flour and milk, as well as 300 cigarettes, two haversacks and a large reel of parachute silk, which she planned to make into several dresses, so she’d look pretty. Having flirted with American GIs and coerced them into bringing her some illegal treats in return for a little love and some special attention, as a first offence, all she received was a written warning. A war was raging, children were starving, and as millions were dying in their beds or being slaughtered on the beaches - without an ounce of compassion in her bones - she cared for no-one but herself. It was all about her – her clothes, her money, her drink, her sex, her good times and her endless fun. On Friday 22nd of September 1944, Georgie moved into a small second-floor front-room at 311 King Street, owned by Mrs Edris Evans. At first, her landlady liked her, she found her charming, sweet and naive. But quickly realising that this was all just a façade, soon enough, she saw that the real Georgie was a ruthless liar who could manipulate men into doing anything for her, to keep her happy and keen. Eleven days later, she met a Private Karl Hulten alias ‘Ricky Allen’, a man of danger and death… …but having fallen for his lies, she believed he was the answer to her dreams. Friday 6th October 1944, roughly 2:40am, driving south from Cricklewood. Ricky Allen drove the 6-wheeled 2 ½ tonne US Army truck down the isolated Edgware Road. The cab was gripped in a stoney silence as, again, he had failed Georgie. After a cowardly attack on a girl on a bike, a pub robbery he’d stopped before it even began, and now the bungled heist of a taxi in Kilburn, he needed to impress Georgie, but all he looked was foolish, like a little boy playing at being a gangster. Ricky claimed “I was driving along Edgware Road when Georgie said ‘there’s a girl, stop’”. According to Ricky, it was Georgie’s decision to pick-up a girl, to attack her and to dump her. Her name was Violet Mae Hodge, an 18-year-old waitress from Filwood Park in Bristol, who was making her way home. “I stopped the truck, and she asked the girl where she was going, she said Paddington to catch a train to Bristol. I told her I was going to Reading and that I would take her there”. Keen to save money, it made sense to Violet, as who wouldn’t trust a serviceman and his girlfriend sitting in a US Army truck. Throwing her suitcase in the back, it must have been a thrill for this young girl to ride in an Army truck and to meet a real 2nd Lieutenant, as feeling safe, she chatted to the Welsh girl who was the same age. “We rode out of London alongside the river”, taking a familiar route through Hammersmith, Chiswick and following the Thames through Brentford, Teddington, Shepperton, Egham, Staines-upon-Thames, and cutting through Runneymede Park towards Reading, not far from the ditch in Knowles Green. Just beside the Bell Weir Lock, Ricky stopped the truck, claiming “we’ve got a flat tyre”. It was dark, quiet and isolated, with no houses in sight and no people to be seen. Ricky told them both to get out, so as he searched for the tools, he could jack-up the truck, a job nearly impossible for one man to do. “I told Georgie to get the girl’s back to me”, Ricky said “she said ‘all right’”. Georgie gave her a cigarette and lit one for herself” as if they were just two girls passing time and nattering. But somehow Violet knew something was wrong, whether it was their furtive glances, the tyres, or having overheard Ricky. Whispering to Ricky, “I think she’s wise to it”, so to distract her, Georgie got back in the truck to get some blocks”, and as she did so, Ricky later confessed, “I hit the girl over the head with an iron bar” – it was a one-kilo tyre-iron, heavier than a brick and harder than a human skull, as a fast whack on the back of the girl’s head caused her to stumble, to stagger and blood to trickle, but oddly, she didn’t fall. Violet screamed “Georgie”, her eyes wide with terror, “Georgie, don’t let him do it”, as the tyre iron came down once again on her bleeding head, as she pleaded “stop him, make him stop”. Only she didn’t, she just watched. And as the young girl remained upright, her pale face now soaked with a river of red, as Ricky seized her throat and his hands began strangling her, at her tears, Georgie just laughed. Ricky confessed “she fell. I knelt on her arm with my left leg, my right leg in her back and her neck in a headlock. The girl was waving her right arm”, panicked and terrified, “Georgie knelt on it”, and as the young girl was overpowered and lay bleeding and gasping for air, “she went through her pockets”. Georgie later stated “the girl made a gurgling noise and I saw blood coming from her mouth. She was struggling as Ricky tightened his grip. I held her legs for about ten minutes, before she became limp”. “By this time the girl had ceased struggling”, Ricky said, “I picked up her shoulders and Georgie her feet. We carried her over to the river and dumped her three feet from the edge”, tossed like litter. Floating in the water lay the bleeding and motionless body of Violet Hodge. Face down in the cold bitter waters, as her attackers drove away, laughing like jackals, they tossed her treasured photos and letters from loved ones into the road, proud of their score of two coats, some slacks and 6 shillings. With the tyre wrench hurled into the water, the only evidence of their cowardly attack on a terrified young girl was the blood spattered down his US Army trousers. which belonged to someone else. Georgie later confessed “I thought the girl was dead”… …only she wasn’t. Bleeding and unconscious, although her body was partially submerged on the bankside, with the low tide going out rather than in, she didn’t drift, she just lay there, her head in the mud, slowly breathing. Coming to, a shivering and sodden Violet would state “I reached an overhanging branch of a tree and dragged myself out of the water. I saw that the lorry had gone, so I made my way to a cottage”. Helped by good people, she was taken to Windsor emergency hospital, suffering a head wound and a ruptured left eye, but in time – physically - she could make a good recovery and would become a vital witness. Friday 6th October, the day of George Heath’s murder. As callous coldblooded killers do, “we stayed in bed until 3pm” having savoured a good night’s sleep. With the victim’s suitcase in Georgie’s wardrobe, spotting his victim’s blood on his trousers, Ricky said “I gave Georgie the ticket for a B4 bag stashed at Hammersmith tube station”. With a fresh uniform in the name of Werner J Meier, that night, they would kill lone a cab driver, and dump his body in a ditch. And having promised Ricky that, “she’d sponge the blood out of them and send it to the cleaners”, it was actually Ricky who she’d planned to send to the cleaners… as she knew he was cheating on her. Monday 9th October 1944, three days after George Heath’s murder, when the police were hunting for his killers and a grey Ford V8 saloon registration plate RD8955, with a missing handbrake return spring and the wheels exactly 4 feet and 10 inches apart. Ricky had hidden it in the old Gaumont cinema car park, but – with the cold shoulder and stoney silence between both killers having returned – he drove the car around to 159 Fulham Palace Road, to impress his new girlfriend, 16-year-old Joyce Alma Cook. All it took to crack the case was a lone constable with a keen eye walking his beat in Lurgan Avenue. At 8:10pm, spotting the car, he called it in, they blocked the street, several detective lay in wait, and as Ricky exited his girlfriend’s house fifty minutes later, they rushed him before he could flee. Pulling him out of the driver’s seat, although he had wiped away any prints or blood, they found the 45 calibre Colt Remington pistol in his hip pocket and six bullets exactly matching those used to kill George Heath. Having been arrested, Karl Hulten, alias Ricky Allen was transferred to Hammersmith Police Station. As expected, as a habitual liar and a thief who had been AWOL for ten weeks – who had stolen a gun, two uniforms and a 2 ½ tonne truck to commit a spree of theft, assault, attempted murder and murder - his statement to 1st Lieutenant Robert De Mott of the US Army military police was a sack of lies. Of the gun, he said “it’s mine, I always carry it, I used it last week to shoot at rabbits, but I missed”. Of the truck, he denied everything, stating “I don’t know nothing about it. I found it in a car park”. Of the car, George’s car, he said “I found it yesterday in a woods near my base”, which may have been feasible, as there were no eyewitnesses who had seen him driving it on the day of George’s murder. And as for the murder itself, he denied being near Chiswick, Hammersmith or Knowles Green, stating “I slept at the Ecclestone Hotel … every night except on Tuesday and Saturday”, which couldn’t be verified, “and I spent the night with a ‘Piccadilly Commando’” - this being Army slang for a prostitute. So far, he hadn’t mentioned Georgie once, having thought he could wheedle his way through this with his lies and proving his manliness by outsmarting the police. Only, when asked where he slept on the Tuesday and Saturday, not being best blessed with brains, he said “my girlfriend’s, Georgina Grayson”. Driven by the police to her second-floor lodging at 311 King Street in Hammersmith, they arrested Georgie - who was not best pleased at her so-called boyfriend’s betrayal - and found Violet’s clothing, her suitcase, and the bloodied trousers she said she’d “sponge and take to the cleaners” but didn’t. In her first statement, Georgie couldn’t help but lie to save her own skin, and as a selfish little girl who only thought of herself – seeing her aliases, her fake job as a dancer, her history of accusing innocent men of assaulting her, and even the bandage on her leg from a bombing she hadn’t been involved in – the police knew that every word which came out of her mouth was a very distant cousin of the truth. Blaming Ricky for their crimes, and stating “when I said I wanted to do something dangerous, I meant to go over Germany in a bomber, but he got me wrong”, although she would admit a minor part in his spree, with only circumstantial evidence against her, the detectives had no choice but to let her go. The investigation would stall without a confession. They had the car, but with no fingerprints or blood. They had the gun, but again, it was clean. Assuring those good people who had bought George’s possessions off Ricky – like the cigarette case, the lighter, the watch with the luminous figures, the fountain pen and the silver pencil – that they would not be arrested for possession as murder was a much more serious offence, they all came forward. And they also had 18-year-old Violet Mae Hodge, who had seen her attacker’s faces and heard their names. But still, they needed a confession… so, with Ricky as knowing full-well that Georgie’s words could convict him and that if she blamed him for everything that he would hang – he opened up. In his second statement, Ricky confessed; “I’ve never broken into any pubs or shops in Hammersmith or elsewhere. I told Georgie that I had been running around with the mob in Chicago. This was not true. It was just a build up for me”. It was just all a lie to impress a girl, and the evidence proved it. As for the murder of George Heath, “when the car stopped, I was holding my loaded and cocked pistol in front of my chest. I looked over to Georgie” - quite why, we don’t know – “I intended to fire through the car, to scare the driver, that’s all. But just as I pulled the trigger, he reached over the back seat to open the left rear door for Georgie. When I fired, I knew that I had hit him, as I heard him groan ‘no’”. In his own words, it was an accident, a mistake by a nervous boy, who was desperate to impress a girl. What he needed now was for Georgie’s story to back him up, as – based on her evidence – if convicted, the best he’d get would be a life sentence for manslaughter, and not a death sentence for murder… …and yet, the life of a coldblooded killer hung on the testimony of another. That day, while walking free in Hammersmith, it’s ironic that Georgie paid a visit to New Pin Cleaners in King Street, where she had promised Ricky she would take his bloodstained trousers… but didn’t. Inside, bumping into ‘Harry’ Kimberly, an old War Reservist who became her friend and a father figure during her time as a waitress at Paul’s café, when she told him her story and asked for his thoughts, he sagely said “the best thing to do would be to go back to the police station and tell the truth”. Returning to Hammersmith police station, Georgie made a second statement, and although it began with the words, “I wish to tell you the whole truth about my association with Ricky Allen and what happened”, whereas she would blame him stating “I lied because Ricky had threatened me”, he counteracted by blaming her, claiming “if it hadn’t been for her, I wouldn’t have shot Heath’”. (End) Charged with the armed robbery of John Strangeway, the intent to murder Violet Mae Hodge, and the murder of taxi-driver George Edward Heath, their trial began at the Old Bailey on 9th January 1945. Across the six-day trial, both Karl Hulten alias Ricky Allen, and Elizabeth Jones alias Georgina Greyson spoke in the witness box for hours of their innocence and blamed the other. With Georgie professing that she was just an innocent girl dragged along for the ride, and Ricky claiming it was all her idea saying “she made some remark about robbing a cab. I argued against it, she kept arguing with me”. But with overwhelming evidence of their guilt stacked against them, on 15th of January 1945, 22-year-old Karl Gustav Hulten and 18-year-old Elizabeth Maud Jones were found guilty of wilful murder. With the only permissible sentence given the gravity of their crimes being death, they both awaited the hang man’s noose, but with the jury – for whatever reason – requesting a recommendation of mercy for her, although they had both failed at appeal, The Secretary of State stepped in and reprieved her. On 8th March 1945, at Pentonville Prison, Karl Hulten was executed by hanging, becoming the first US soldier to be executed on British soil. Back in Boston, although his wife Rita and daughter were given a chance to say goodbye to him, with the transatlantic telephone line having failed, they never spoke. Reprieved two days before her execution, Elizabeth Jones served nine years of her life sentence. Released from prison in 1954, she later married, had children, and as far as we know, remained good. But what was the truth, which was the lie, and who was the coldblooded psychopath? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-FIVE:
On Wednesday 24th of May 1871, a wealthy bachelor called Frederick Moon came 23 Newton Road in Bayswater, the lavish home of his girlfriend Hannah Newington for dinner. They ate fine food, they drank good wine, they listened to music on the piano, and then – for reasons that no-one could fathom – he ended up dead. But who had killed him? His girlfriend, her lover, their guests, himself, or was it fate?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a yellow exclamation mark (!) above the words 'The Long Water' in Hyde Park. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Newton-Road in Bayswater, W2; four roads west of the lovesick assailant of Barbara Shuttleworth, two roads north of the ‘old lady killer’, three roads east of the petty revenge of Dominic Kelly, and a short walk from the bones of the spoiled child - coming soon to Murder Mile. Newton Road is a quiet residential street dotted with a wealth of luxurious homes from the 1800s. All pristine white and sparklingly bright, there’s no litter, no dog plop, no kids, no noise, and no dickheads soiling the street with the soulless thump of braindead beats, all because they want a bit of attention. Here you can expect their version of Deliveroo called ‘I’m famished, what-what?’ to airlift a platter of oysters and a bottle of Bolli, the road sweeper to wear slippers to keep his noise down, and the nanny to silence the brat with the speed of a ninja should the posh sprog interrupt mummy’s mid-afternoon snooze having had a “frightfully busy day perusing the pashminas at Laura Ashley, don’t you know”. 23 Newton-Road looks as it did in the 1870s, being a semi-detached two-storey townhouse with white stucco walls, steps up to the ground floor, and a basement which was the scullery and maid’ quarters. On Wednesday 24th of May 1871, a wealthy bachelor called Frederick Moon came here to the lavish home of his girlfriend Hannah Newington for dinner. They ate fine food, they drank good wine, they listened to music on the piano, and then – for reasons that no-one could fathom – he ended up dead. But who had killed him? His girlfriend, her lover, their guests, himself, or was it fate? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 235: The Accident, Suicide or Murder of Freddy Moon. Most deaths are easily explainable; a heart attack, a car accident, chocking on food or falling off a wall. It should all be as self-explanatory as finding a corpse with a knife in his chest. But with Freddy being dead, his girlfriend inconsolable, and the guests and servants having seen nothing? This case was not. The victim’s name was Frederick Graves Moon, and he was born in 1829. Raised in pomp and privilege, as the younger son to Sir Francis Graham Moon, 1st Baronet, Alderman and the former Lord Mayor of London, he lived a lavish life of extreme wealth, with high expectations that he would match his father’s prestige, titles and vast success. His older brother was a Sir and a 2nd Baronet to boot, but being described as “a kind, liberal hearted fellow”, Freddy lacked their bite. By 1871, 41-year-old Freddy had become part owner of Moon, Cock & Co Brewery in Leicester, one of the premier beer and porter manufacturers in Britain, serving millions of gallons of giddy-making grog to pubs all over the country, and raking in a whopping £3000 a year, roughly £3.3 million today. Given his financial success, his father should have been proud. But Freddy wasn’t a business brain or a leader of men, as all he did was to invest his family’s money, and to let his partners do the hard work. Those who knew Freddy said, “he loved the idle life being a man of easy amusements” with which he could fritter away his free time, engage in frivolity, and squander his profits on a bachelor’s pleasures. As a huge fan of horse racing, Freddy was well-accustomed to blowing a wad at the racetrack having got wind that a gee-gee called The Filly’s Fancy was a dead-cert, only to lose a small fortune on a nag destined for the glue factory. He liked wine wines and rich foods, which burdened his stout and rotund frame with bouts of gout, attacks of bilious and the odd burp of rich man’s wind having over-indulged. But most of all, he loved beautiful women, and although he was often seen strutting in Mayfair with a rather sparkling little lady perched upon his arm like a budgie pecking for seeds, he never married. He loved to be loved, and he always had love in his heart. But in his heart, he was always a bachelor. And although, the love of a good woman was never far from his mind… …what made his life more difficult was his love of unattainable women. Hannah Newington went by many names and aliases, such as Flora Newington, Flora Canning, Frances S Canning and Madame de Morne which suggested a loftier upbringing as a woman who married well. In truth, she was born as humble old Hannah Fowler, a girl who came from nothing and was destined to live a life of drudgery with too many kids on a small wage, a drunken lout as a wayward husband, and the twilight years of her early forties, spent alone and picking oakum as a workhouse inmate. But unlike so many for whom that was their life, on her side, she had her looks and she used them wisely. In 1856, aged 22, Hannah married a wealthy and successful solicitor called William Newington, but they were not happy, not by a long stretch. And with him being described as “a solicitor of good standing”, with him fleeing for unknown reasons to the distant shores of Australia after just three years, he would be gone, and she would be branded with the scandalous title of “an abandoned wife”. And without his permission to divorce, she could never remarry, making any relationship sinful. As a single woman with no career and a daughter to support, Hannah did what she could to survive in an era where a woman had less rights than cattle, and an unmarried divorcee was akin to the devil. Little is known about her criminal history, but it was said that Hannah was a professional con woman who used her beauty to lure in some of London’s wealthiest men, who lived the high life in the city’s most opulent hotels, and who dined off their fortunes by pretending to be their wife. Leaving a trail of debt across Mayfair having “left without paying” and “obtaining goods by misrepresentation”, in 1867 she was convicted of fraud, having left six creditors owing £2300 (just over £2.4 million today). After a short stint in prison, as some of her suitors had taken pity on her, in 1871, Hannah became the paramour of Captain Davy, a retired Army officer described as “strange with a big black beard”. Quite what their relationship was is uncertain; to some, she was his girlfriend; to society, she was little more than a concubine or a high-class prostitute; but to her, although they never married, she went by the title of Mrs Davey, as when the so-called wife of an Army officer says she’s his wife, who would check? That year, either as a symbol of his love, or as a place where he could keep her, Captain Davey rented her a three-floored townhouse at 23 Newton-Road in the fashionable suburb of Bayswater. He paid her rent, he purchased her food, he gave her a generous allowance, and all she had to do was be there. It’s uncertain whether she loved Captain Davey, but unable to remarry and with her beauty fading, this once-young attractive girl who was tall and elegant had morphed into a man-sized and slightly stout 38-year-old woman of “questionable morals and character” for whom time was running out. Depressed at her fading looks and ebbing charm, she drank to quell her fears, she ate to comfort her loneliness, and as a nervous and unpredictable woman with a severe alcohol problem, her doctor had advised her to “dry out” by going to a German resort, but instead, she stayed home and drank more. Hannah was a drunk, Freddy was depressed, and together that mix would be lethal. In his final year alive, Freddy was plagued by a wealth of stresses. As a 41-year-old man, his father had pestered him to marry as most of his siblings had, but Freddy had no-one but Hannah; an abandoned wife, a suspected prostitute and a career criminal who was woefully unsuitable for a baronet’s son. 18 months prior, his beloved mother Anne had died, and his grief had left him in an emotional funk. In the months prior, his relationship with Hannah had become more fractious, with her shouting “I am your wife, Freddy”, only for him to retort, “no you are not, and you will never be as long as I live”. And although Freddy’s friend, Captain Bowes Elliot had suggested that Freddy use his wealth to get rid of her - spoken more out of drunken spite than genuine hatred - over a lunch Hannah was heard to spit “by heavens, I’ll have your life”, and at a dinner she supposedly said, “by Jove, I’ll stab you some day!”. Their quarrels – usually over an overabundance of port – were short-lived and predominantly verbal, they always apologised, and Freddy made up for his mood by gifting Hannah with a tidy sum of £200. Wednesday 24th of May 1871 was Freddy’s last day alive. Being supposedly sunk in the depths of depression, some have suggested this was down to his losses at Derby Day, and although he was described as “very gloomy”, he only lost £10 (£1400 today), whereas at the time of his death, he still had £1300 in his bank (the equivalent of £1.8 million). It could have been that Hannah had failed to keep a lunch date with him, although she had stood him up many times before, but there was also a much weightier problem which was bearing down up his brain. In May 1871, the British Government had proposed the introduction of the 1872 Licensing Bill. Having largely been unregulated, Parliament were shaping new laws on alcohol. Soon, it would be an offence to be drunk in public, to be drunk in charge of a horse, or to be drunk in possession of a loaded firearm, all of which affected the people, but there were new laws which affected his business as a brewery. In a few months’ time, brewers could no longer add salt to the beer which they did to make the drinker more thirsty, all pubs were legally obliged to close at 11pm, and the licensing hours were to be decided by the local authority with each borough having the right to become ‘dry’, also known as ‘alcohol free’. As expected, the law almost caused riots amongst the people and the breweries themselves, and with Freddy terrified that his business would struggle to survive, this could mean the end of his brewery. It was a turbulent time for Freddy Graves Moon, and although his mental disposition was questioned in court, with his highly paid solicitor objecting to the question, his mental state remains unknown. The night itself was peaceful. The street was quiet, and being a well-to-do suburb, it was routinely patrolled by PC Rowe from late afternoon until the time when the body was found. When he first passed, he noted that “all was calm”. Adelaide Matthews, parlourmaid to ‘Mrs Davey’ as Hannah Newington was known, heard the doorbell being rung at 5pm. As was her role, she answered the door, curtseyed to Mr Moon and showed this sour-faced gentleman in, as his housemaid Mary Ann Hale, scurried to the servant’s quarters below. Adelaide said “he was in the habit of coming to the house and used to dine there. I let him in. At that time Mrs Davey was in the billiard room”. As was protocol, “I showed him into the dining room”, where he would wait until the lady was ready to greet him, “but he went straight in”. He wasn’t upset, angry or anxious, as those who saw him recalled “it was as if he’d the weight of the world on his shoulders”. “By Mrs Davey’s order, I took a bottle of champagne into the billiard room”, and between them, they sunk a bottle of finest Bollinger, not out of celebration, but because that’s what wealthy people do. According to the staff, “before dinner, Mr Moon walked around the garden”. He was alone, and being a man of wealth and privilege, it was not the place of the servants to ask if he was okay, so they didn’t. At 7:30pm, they dined. Served by Hannah’s parlour maid, they ate soup, chicken, vegetables, an array of fresh bread, with a fine selection of champagne, brandy and claret with the sherry in an ornate cut-glass decanter, complete with hand-rolled cigars, cheeses and water biscuits, but no fruit or dessert. That said, with Hannah not expecting Freddy that night, the dinner itself was intended for her friends - Laura Pock & Catherine Bulin – but seeing his mood, to cheer him up, she had accommodated him. From what was overheard, Freddy was in a gloomy mood as he feared his brewery business was about to collapse, he had lost £10 backing the wrong horse, and he was perturbed that Hannah “had the eye of other men”. Which for anyone whether in or outside of that room shouldn’t have been a surprise. At half past eight, as Hannah & Freddy sat at the dining table supping brandies, Adelaide cleared away the dishes, and from the table she removed a small wicker basket of six bread knives to the sideboard. At around the same time, Laura Pock & Catherine Bulin, Hannah’s houseguests arrived after a hard day horse-riding and taking a long lunch and steady brunch. Welcomed in, olives were served, a bottle of claret was opened, and Laura & Catherine entertained them with music on the guitar and piano. Passing by on his beat, at roughly 9pm, PC Rowe said the noise emanating from the house was “a little more raucous”, and although, society said “this seemingly respectable house was a brothel”, as a working-class constable, it wasn’t his position to enquire about the private habits of the upper classes. This may have been a scandalous aspersion, but wherever Hannah went, her bad reputation followed. According to Adelaide, who had known Hannah and Freddy for 16 months, “Mrs Davey and Mr Moon appeared to be on affectionate terms, she called him ‘Fred’ and he called her ‘Flo’”, although she never questioned why the supposed wife of an Army Captain cavorted with an incorrigible bachelor. But what whatever was going on between them that night, the air was tinged with jealousy. At 9:30pm, Dr Phillips arrived. As the personal physician to Mrs Davey, he had been seeing her on what was described as a “purely professional basis” for the last six months, with the last six weeks seeing her bedbound, as owing to her severe alcohol problem he had failed to get her to ‘dry out’. When Dr Phillips was shown into the drawing room, Adelaide recalled “I thought by her eyes that Mrs Davey had been crying”. The doctor stayed briefly, with Fred not uttering a word to him, then he left. But was Freddy ambivalent, distracted, or jealous? Fuelled by champagne and liqueur, it was said that “Freddy was feeling perkier”, and with the young girls joining them for some after dinner fun, “Catherine played the piano as Laura romped on the floor, catching a decanter of sherry which Freddy threw into her lap”. As drunken antics go, that may seem innocent enough, but four months before, Freddy had done the same and the decanter had smashed. That time, he had apologised. Only this time, before he could, Hannah had sent the young ladies away, and the jubilant mood in the dining room was sullied, leaving a cold silence hanging like a dull cloud. But was Hannah drunk, angry, or upset? At 11:30pm, on his beat, PC Rowe passed 23 Newton Road “and noticed nothing unusual. I saw people going in and out, and I saw Mary Ann Hale, Mr Moon’s housemaid enter with a letter in her hand”. It was never explained what that letter was, and with it not being her job, Mary Ann never read it. But… …at the trial, William Pickford, Freddy’s friend stated, “Mrs Davey was jealous of him, as having put his arms around Catherine Bulin, he was not allowed to be left alone with her”, and a letter read out in court suggested that Freddy “enjoyed the favours of Catherine”, who he knew as “dear little Kitty”. According to the staff who were one floor below, and Laura & Catherine who were one floor above, at the time of the incident, they didn’t hear any shouts or scuffles, Hannah & Freddy were alone, and the knife basket had been moved to the table, possibly by Dr Phillips, who’d had himself a little snack. Mary Ann Hale recalled, “I was in the kitchen, immediately below the dining room, the first thing that attracted my attention was a fall… then I heard a scream”. Hannah rang the servant’s bell and shouted, “go for a doctor”, which Adelaide did, and as Mary Ann went upstairs, “I saw Mr Moon on the floor. Mrs Davey was kneeling by his side trying to undo his clothes and saying she was ‘trying to save him’”. A kitchen knife - missing from the breadbasket - was protruding from the left of his chest, just below his heart. With a steady pool of blood forming about his body, and a slowly decreasing pulse of red spurting from his once-white shirt, it was clear that Freddy’s life was ebbing away, second by second. With Hannah in a distressed state, the servants would state “she did everything to save him”, but as she sat crying and cradling him, knowing he was dead, Catherine Bulin heard her blub “I fear I did it". It was as near to a confession as anyone would get. At 12:15am, alerted to the scene, PC Rowe, PC Fewtrill and Dr Phillips entered 23 Newton Road. PC Rowe would state “I saw the deceased lying dead near the fireplace. There was a table with several bottles on it. Close to the body was a bowl with bloody water. In the drawing room I saw Mrs Davey sitting on the sofa. She was pulling off her jacket. The inside was lined with white and was saturated with blood. The upper part of her clothing was also covered with blood and her hair was disarranged”. With the partially clean knife having been removed from Freddy’s motionless chest and found lying in the fire fender near to his body, the Constable promptly arrested Hannah Newington alias Mrs Davey with a customary “consider yourself in custody”, and she was later charged with his murder. But was this an accident, a suicide, or a murder? With no witnesses to the incident itself, the police and the jury had to rely on the testimony of several medical experts who gave their opinion based on their expertise and knowledge. William Baker, a surgeon at St Bartholomew’s hospital said “the wound was downwards, forwards and inwards. The weapon took one uniform direction”. And although he would state, “It was not possible that the weapon might have been the result of an accident”, although he admitted he had “no special experience in the cases of stabbing”, he concluded “the wound was caused by another person”. Dr Phillips, Hannah’s physician, said “the wound was six inches deep, and it is not impossible that it was caused by him falling on the knife”, which Dr Royston also confirmed “as highly improbable”. But with Dr Canton, surgeon at Charing Cross Hospital and a lecturer in anatomy stating “it was most probable that the wound was accidental”, Mr Walton, a surgeon at St Mary’s agreeing “it might have been an accident”, or “possibly self-inflicted” and Mr Gay, chief surgeon at Great Northern Hospital concluding “the wound was more explainable as an accident than as the result of a deliberate stab”. With the jury left in a state of confusion, and with fingerprints not accepted as evidence in the British legal system until 1901, they were stuck in a quandary; was it an accident, a suicide, or murder? (End) Tried at the Old Bailey on the 13th of July 1871, before Mr Baron Channell, in a two-day-trial, Hannah Newington, alias Flora Davey pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the charge of murder, with Dr Lewis agreeing with her defence that “the wounds may have been self-inflicted by Freddy” in a state of abject depression. As a married but abandoned woman who was kept by Captain Davey and was merely the mistress of Freddy Moon, as she would not have financially benefitted from his death, the prosecution reduced the charge to one of manslaughter, which meant – if found guilty – that she would not be executed. With Sargeant Parry wrapping up for the defence, stating “the prisoner and the deceased loved each other dearly… Mr Moon was depressed, and whatever occurred was done in a moment of fear”, having deliberated for half an hour, at 4pm, they returned a verdict of guilty of manslaughter. The judge concluded “she took up the knife, perhaps not anticipating the awful consequences, but she armed herself in order to meet the encounter of the deceased”. Taking into account that it wasn’t premeditated, she was sentenced to eight years in prison, and had to be carried from the dock. In her defence, Hannah stated “Freddy insulted me, when I asked him not to repeat those words, he flung a bottle at my head, I leapt up with the knife, he seized me, and we both fell down”. That’s it. Sent to Woking prison, Hannah spent the first two years in the prison infirmary owing to exhaustion. Having a relapse as she’d learned that her only daughter had died, Hannah Newington was released on 15th of September 1874, and she died early 1913. As for Freddy Moon, owing to the scandal of his death, his name was removed from Burke’s peerage, as well as from the brewery he had once owned. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-SIX:
This is Part One of Three of Coldblooded. On Saturday 7th October 1944 at 2:15am, 34-year-old taxi-driver George Edward Heath drove his recently loaned grey V8 Ford Sedan east along Hammersmith Road. Forty minutes later, he would be dead. But why was George killed, for revenge, for sport, for money, or something stranger?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a blue exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Hammersmith'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Coldblooded. An adjective which describes two types of beings. The first is a reptile whose body temperature mirrors its environment, which is regulated by the cooling or warming of its blood, and with a slower metabolism, needs only feed sporadically on its prey. It is natural, essential, and its mode of hunting is akin to any other creature in nature’s kingdom. The second is a human who is callous, ruthless and cruel, and as a warm-blooded beast who shouldn’t need to hunt or feast - lacking any empathy - these spineless and soulless vultures seek out the weak, hunt for spoils and sport, and suckle on the gaping wounds of the innocent to feed their bloodlust. Wrongly attributed to the psychology of snakes and lizards, it’s a term we have reserved for society’s deadliest predators - sociopaths, murderers and psychopaths. And although they tend to hunt at night, our own coldblooded killers come in many forms - those you can spot, and those you cannot. This is part one of three of Coldblooded. George Edward Heath was an ordinary guy, doing an everyday job, working long hours to feed his family. Born on 23rd May 1910, George was raised in London, lived in London and would die in London. Aged 34, being five foot-eight in height and twelve stone in weight - with neatly cropped hair, a square head with a stern face, chiselled features and a prominent cleft chin - George was an unremarkable man who - like so many of us - blended seamlessly into society, never making waves or leaving ripples. In 1934, while working as a waiter at the Woodlands Hotel in the former Kent town of Chislehurst, he met and fell in love with Winifred Ivy Neve, a waitress, and by September 1935, the two were married in a simple ceremony at Lewisham Registry Office. As expected, two children followed, with George Anthony (his namesake) in 1936 and Arthur Barry in 1939, making their lives as happy as most others. Described by Winifred as “a restless man, who always wanted to be on the move” and was “very fond of money and having plenty of life”, shortly before their marriage, he quit his poorly paid waitering job and joined Godfrey Davis Ltd as a private hire driver, working irregular hours for a reliable income. In all honesty, there is very little to report about the life of George Heath, the ordinary London taxi driver. He worked hard making an honest wage, but like many, he never owned his own cab. He was likeable, friendly and polite, being a man with many friends, a steady routine and no enemies. And although his vices were drinking, smoking and gambling; he never lit-up in the car, he never drank on the job, and with as many wins as he had losses, betting on horses was just a hobby to busy his brain. By 1938, George may have thought that following the death of his parents that he had faced his share of grief, but like so many millions across this city and beyond, the Grim Reaper was hoving into view. The Second World War was a time of upheaval and turmoil, as lives were lost, families were fractured, and this sprawling metropolis of the innocent became a sky-borne target for destruction and death. In September 1939, with the younger fitter men conscripted as an endless wall of meat for the cannon fire, George was enlisted as a War Reserve Policeman patrolling the lawless streets of Victoria. Later becoming a unit driver for the Royal Army Service Corps in Mitcham, having been discharged in August, he was briefly a delivery driver for the Entertainment Service Association as well as Hovis the bakers. Like so many, his life was in chaos... only fate was not on his side. On the night of 18th September 1940, eleven days into an eight month-long bombing campaign by the Luftwaffe, George was at home at 6 Sangora Road in Battersea - three streets from Clapham Junction railway station, a vital mainline from the south and a key strategic target for their devastating blitz. As distant hum of bombers loomed overhead, although his wife and boys were safe elsewhere, George was not. And as he hunkered down; being encircled by the blast of landmines on Strathblaine Road, the shockwaves of 20 kilo bombs on Plough Road, and a fiery wall as incendiaries exploding on Brussels Road, trapped in an epicentre of superhot flames and flying shrapnel, George survived, but only just. Committed to Long Grove, a psychiatric hospital in Epsom for a full year with what we would call PTSD, although physically well, upon his discharge on the 21st of August 1941, George was a changed man – gruff and lost - but still keen to work hard, do his bit, and to provide for his family, so he soldiered on. In 1942, he moved his family to Hard’s Cottages in Ewell, Surrey, as far from the bombs as possible. And although his landlady described him as “a model lodger who was devoted to wife and children”, growing unhappy, they separated in Autumn 1943, he returned to London to work as a cabbie, and in July 1944 he started seeing Violet Fleisig, a married mother-of-two while her husband served overseas. George Heath had survived so much. And yet, it wasn’t a bomb which would snuff out his life, as merely being the wrong man in the wrong place at the wrong time… (a taxi drives along a street) …fate put him in the path of a coldblooded killer. The last time he saw his wife was on 21st July. He stayed the night, he kissed his kids, he gave her £7 on top of the £4 he sent each week, and then did his shift even though he had been bitten by a dog. As a private hire cabbie, George worked antisocial hours from 7:30pm to 4am to pull in the nighttime crowd of the West End, driving a slew of faceless strangers to familiar and uncharted parts of the city. On Tuesday 26th of September 1944, eleven days before his murder, George visited the garage of Harry Hawkins at Sunninghill in Ascot to hire a car. Handing over a cheque for £14 (£750 today) as security, that day he drove away a nearly new grey Ford V8 four-door saloon with the registration plate RD8955. With no dents, being pristine clean, and with the handbrake in full working order, George was required to return it by Saturday 7th October at 9am, as it was booked up to drive passengers to Ascot Races. George had every plan to keep that promise, as to him, the car was merely a means of making money to feed his family, but to his callous killer, it was the place where he would breathe his last breath. Friday 6th October was George’s last day alive, although he didn’t know that. Dressed in a grey flannel suit, a white shirt, brown brogues and a dark blue Melton overcoat, George undertook his pre-work routine of putting everything where it was needed; a silver-plated pencil and a slightly leaky fountain pen in his breast pocket to fill in his cabbie’s logbook, a Swiss made Bentima watch on his wrist with luminous figures as the city was still in blackout, a cigarette case with an odd sliding mechanism, and a black leather wallet containing a photo of his girlfriend Violet and his kids. At 7pm, he met Violet at the Pineapple pub where his autopsy would state he ate a meal of potatoes, and as always, he drank no alcohol. She said his mood was good, he wasn’t anxious or worried. And back at her flat at 45 Cumberland Street in Westminster, he had a shave, and agreed that at 8am, he’d take her and two pals to Ascot Races, giving him time (as promised) to return the car to Harry Hawkins. Starting at 9pm, he prowled for pick-ups in the West End, but finding the streets quite quiet, he swung by Godfrey Davis Ltd by Victoria Station, the private hire firm he had worked at for almost a decade, and chatted to Arthur Green, his pal of 14 years to see if there were any jobs to be swung his way. The pickings were slim, as the recent barrage of V1 rocket attacks had sent a second wave of civilians to leave the city behind, so with only £7 in his wallet, he returned twice at 10:30pm and 11:05pm, but he was unable to accept a job as “he had a pickup at The Regent Palace Hotel in Piccadilly”. As always, George left his pal wishing him “all the best” and saying, “see you later” - only this time, he would not. The next four hours of George’s life as a cabbie in that car are missing. We don’t know where he went, where he travelled to, what he charged, or who he carried, as his driver’s logbook was never found. The night was bitterly cold and frustratingly wet, and with the wartime blackout still in-force meaning that not a single streetlight was on, the road was black, the pavement was in shadow, and even the dull yellow headlights of George’s grey V8 Ford Sedan had been narrowed to just two thin little slits. At 2:15am, just two hours before his shift was due to end, while driving from Hammersmith Broadway, as he passed Cadby Hall on the Hammersmith Road, he was flagged down by a young lady (“taxi”). Pulling up to the corner of Munden Street, as she peeped inside his cab, although it was as dark as the blackest night, George could see she had brown curled hair, pale skin and red lips, and as a slim girl in a fashionable floral print dress, her perfume was just a little heavy as she was bunged up with a cold. In a Welsh accent she asked, “are you a taxi?” - which was a logical question as with no signs, no ‘for hire’ light and no passengers in the backseat, as owing to rationing, taxis were shared to save on fuel and tyres, so unlike London’s black cabs, private hires were hard to tell apart from other cars. George replied “private hire, where do you want to go?”, at which she said “wait a minute” and went back to the dark damp doorway, where a man, possibly her boyfriend, was sheltering from the wind and rain. For a minute, George waited, and although it irked him, he knew that beggars can’t be choosers when the night was as quiet as this, so for a short while he waited, unwittingly making a fateful decision. A moment later, a stocky man with a boyish face was led from the shadows by the girl. Dressed in the green trousers and a khaki tunic of a US Army officer, as he said “take us to the top of King Street” - a ride of just five minutes and ten shillings - it was clear that this was an American of European decent. As far as we know, George had no suspicions that his life was about to end, as this couple of lovebirds on a night-out sat in the dark of his backseat, the girl behind the passenger’s seat and the man behind him, as they silently watched the world go by - George focussed on the road, too tired for chitchat. George Heath was an ordinary man, doing his regular job, who was chosen at random… …and yet, he was just two and half miles from his murder, and barely forty minutes from his death. As the taxi drove down King Street, with this usually busy shopping district dark and deserted, not a sight nor sound emanated from the thick rows of shops, pubs and lodgings on either side. In the five minutes it took to drive its full length, nobody uttered a word, until at the junction of Goldhawk Road, George gruffly broke the silence – “okay, well, we’ve passed King Street, where do you want to go?”. The soldier uttered “it’s further on, I don’t mind paying more”, and although (as a cabbie) George was used to passengers dithering, across the next ten minutes as they drove a further one and a half miles, the man kept uttering “a bit further, no further still, a bit more”, as if he was looking for somewhere or someone, when in fact, he was looking for a dark and isolated spot to kill a cabbie in cold blood. The passenger’s indecision had riled George, but needing the fare, he said nothing and carried on, not knowing that this was the last time he would drive down the Chiswick High Road or see another day. At the Chiswick roundabout, George bluntly barked “this is the Great West Road, where now?”. Only this was it. It was an odd place for a couple to depart being far from any houses and surrounded by a few empty factories which were guarded by nightwatchmen, but it was the perfect place for a killing. “Just here” the solider said, being one of the last words George would ever hear, as he pulled the taxi into an unnamed layby for the last time, and as George applied the handbrake, his killer cocked his .45 calibre US Army pistol, which George didn’t hear or react to. Instead, being a man of manners whose shift was almost done, he reached over the passenger’s seat to unlock the left rear-door for the lady. The time was 2:30am. (Bang) Whether George knew what had happened is uncertain, as the loud explosion rang in his ears, a wetness poured down his back, and a sharp pain pierced his chest. Moaning loudly, he slumped over the steering wheel, unaware that a hot bullet had torn into his back, splitting his sixth rib and fracturing his right third rib as it exited his chest, as splintered lead ruptured his lung and severed his spinal cord. And as George lay motionless and silent, as he slowly drowned as his vital organs bled, he would live for another fifteen minutes, but for every single second, he would be paralysed and at his killer’s whim. Unable to fight or flee, with his head slumped on his chest, George heard his killer shout “move over, or I’ll give you another” as he was shoved across to the passenger’s seat and the car drove off at speed. The man was driving, and although he couldn’t see, George would have felt it as they crossed the River Thames at Kew Bridge, sped down Kew Road and onto Twickenham Road heading south-west, as with each mile they drove, he got weaker, and colder, and ever closer to death, but his killer didn’t care. “Check his pockets”, the American soldier barked, and although George could barely breathe in short gasps as his failing body echoed with an ever-increasing death rattle, rather than helping him live, like a vulture, the Welsh woman stole his watch, his wallet, his fountain pen and pencil, his cigarette lighter and a case, pocketing £4 in notes, some silver coins, a few petrol coupons, and then binning the rest. To them, it was nothing but worthless tat. It didn’t matter that everything was precious to him; his driving licence which gave him a job, his cabbie’s logbook which was a history of his career, a watch he was given as a gift, a pen he had borrowed from his girlfriend, a letter from his wife, and a treasured photo of his boys – aged just five and eight – who he would never see again, nor say “goodbye” to. As the Ford V8 was floored down Twickenham Bridge and onto the Chertsey Road, it would have been then that 34-year-old George Edward Heath had died, a life snuffed out for the contents of his pockets. No prayer was said for the dead man, just a desire to dump him and flee. The car was driven at speed onto the Staines Road West, onto Kingston Road and Stainash Parade to Knowles Green, sixteen and a half miles from the Chiswick roundabout, and as his slowly cooling body lay slumped in the passenger’s seat, it shimmied back and forth as the car turned onto an old dirt road. Amidst a dark canopy of trees, the car stopped, the engine now as silent as George’s heart. With the passenger’s door opened to the cold night air, the man dragged him out by his armpits as the woman grabbed his legs, and with no ceremony or send off, they rolled his body into a ditch, like rubbish. Wiping his filthy blood off their hands with the handkerchief they had stolen from his overcoat, they both got in his car and fled, leaving his cold dead carcase out in the wild where the animals could feast. And as they had struggled to ride the uneven grass and dirt-track, although there was one witness – Reginald Turney of Stainash Crescent who was sleeping in his Anderson shelter when he was awoken by a car’s engine revving hard as if it was driving on bumpy ground - he ignored it and fell asleep. The killer’s journey back was a chance to dispose of the evidence. As the woman drove, the man examined the spoils of his killing, tossing the wallet out of the window and scattering the papers and photos along the Great West Road. Having found the bullet casing using the dead man’s torch, he flung that too. And as the grey Ford V8 was driven back to Hammersmith, it was hidden among a slew of civilian and military vehicles in a car park behind the old Gaumont Cinema. There, they parked up, applied the now slightly dodgy handbrake, cleaned out any of the dead man’s belongings, and wiped down the car with a handkerchief inside and out, so that – apart from a small dent on the nearside front door and on the passenger’s dashboard – it looked just like any other car. But did the killer run? No. Being callous and coldblooded, with his bloodlust satisfied and needing to fill his belly, they went to the Black & White café in Hammersmith Broadway to have tea, chips and egg. It didn’t matter that a man was dead and lying in a ditch, as – to him – being quarter-to-four in the morning, all he wanted was to get home, to bed, to sleep. And although he asked one of the cabbies in that café to drive them - using the dead man’s money, and possibly asking one of his friends who was unaware that his pal was dead, and soon that his wife, girlfriend and children would all be grieving – they declined. So, as he walked back to the woman’s flat on King Street for sweet dreams and some nookie, just a short walk from where this vicious odyssey had begun, it is said that this exchange between them took place; she said “he’s dead isn’t he?”, he replied “yeah”, she said “that’s coldblooded murder then, isn’t it? How could you do it?”, as he said “people in my profession haven’t the time to think”. (End) The next morning, he sold off George’s possessions for so few pounds that didn’t last them the rest of the day. Everyone knew they were nicked, but being wartime, even the most decent of people were happy to buy anything which was unavailable, on the black market as long as no questions were asked. The K he sold for eight shillings to a confectioner called Fleischman. The cigarette case and lighter he sold to his old pal Len Bexley, as repayment for a debt. The watch with the luminous figures he sold for £5 to Morris Levene. And having scattered the evidence of his heinous crime among a sea of seemingly innocent people, he knew that he would be safe, as no-one would be likely to tell the police or to brag to friends that they had willingly purchased stolen goods. That day, to celebrate his good fortune, they went to the pub and got pissed, they headed to the café and had a fry-up, they went to the White City Stadium and placed a few bets on a dog, and then headed to the cinema to see Christmas Holiday, a crime thriller starring Deanna Durban & Gene Kelly. By the end of the day, every penny he had made by killing George Heath was gone. His death was as meaningless as the rind on bacon, and his life as disposable as his photographs he had tossed away. For George’s family, their grief would last a lifetime, but for his killer, this cruel and callous act was just as quickly forgotten. It was a murder committed by a coldblooded psychopath… …but who was the cruelest? Part two of three continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-THREE:
At 5:15am, on the Boxing Day morning of 1948, cartoonist Harry Michaelson was found on his doorstep of Flat 75 at Fursecroft in Marylebone, nursing a bloody wound to his head. With no memory of what had happened, the police relied on the evidence. But having made a lazy assumption, they almost derailed the entire investigation.
THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a black exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Marble Arch'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on George Street in Marylebone, W1; one street south of the first killing by the Blackout Ripper, two streets east of the failed hit on the exiled Iraqi general, a few doors down from the deaf son’s desperate mum, and a few doors up from Dot the Deadly - coming soon to Murder Mile. Built in the 1930s, Fursecroft is a posh ten-storey Edwardian mansion block, the kind you’d expect to see in Poirot, where for 90 minutes the famous Belgian detective twists his little moustache and jiggles his grey cells – all the while dreaming of waffles, chocolate, TinTin and moule et frites, as what else do Belgian’s do - only to conclude that – dun-dun-duuuuhn, the killer was the slutty bigamist… again. And yet, Marylebone’s own detectives almost failed to solve a simple case owing to an assumption. On the Boxing Day morning of 1948, 50-year-old Harry Michaelson was found on his doorstep at Flat 75. With a towel to his forehead, blood running down his face, and no memory of what had occurred, with no signs of forced entry, the police assumed they were hunting an assailant who Harry had let in. Only he hadn’t. And although they had supposedly interrogated every detail given by the eyewitnesses who knew Harry well, it took a sharp-eyed constable with a suspicious nose to truly trap his murderer. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 233: Sketches. Eugene Fordsworthe said, “assumption is the mother of all mistakes”. It’s a crime we’ve all committed, as sometimes, it’s too easy to assume the most logical answer must be the right answer. For us, it’s a mistake we can make with very little consequences, but for detectives, it can derail an investigation. Harry Saul Michaelson was born on the 14th of December 1898, being raised in a loving well-educated middle-class family and spending most of his five decades in and around Willesden and Paddington. Being five foot six and sparsely built, those who knew Harry described him as a cheery and pleasant gentleman who was always kind, and - as a talented cartoonist and an acclaimed commercial artist – he loved to wile away his free time by sketching friends and strangers over a cup of tea and a chat. But painting was also how he made his living. Nicknamed ‘one minute Michaelson’, Harry toured the theatres of Great Britain as a ‘lightening cartoonist’ who wowed the crowds with his speedy sketching as part of a music hall act. As an immensely creative man who brought joy to the masses, especially as the bombs of the Luftwaffe pummelled every British city while the Second World War raged on, it made sense that Harry would fall in love – possibly on the circuit - with a talented pianist called Anna. In November 1938, they married at Willesden Registry Office, and as performers with no children, it was said that they toured together. But with Harry having contracted malaria during the First World War – and still suffering from the long-term effects of fevers, chills, aches and pains, as well as stomach problems and nerves - described by his younger brother as “highly strung”, for the sake of his health, he gave up performing, and continued working from home with a set of paints and an easel by his bed. In 1941, Harry & Anna moved into a small bed-sitting room at Flat 75 of Fursecroft in Marylebone. As a basement flat, the view from its two casement windows wasn’t much as it overlooked the concrete wall below the corner of Brown Street and Nutford Place, but as a modern block with solid locks and being staffed by a team of porters, day and night, what they paid for was the amenities and security. For Harry, who spent most of his days alone in this tiny two roomed flat, it had everything he needed; a kitchen-cum-bathroom with a toilet and a bath in the same room as a gas hob (which for then was normal), and a bed-sitting room with two single beds, a phone, a gas fire, a wealth of artwork, a day bed for resting while he sketched with an easel, paints and heaped stacks of magazines and papers for reference, as well as a tubular metal chair where his guests could sit as they posed for their portraits. As a polite but solitary figure, he always greeted the porters, he went for his morning coffee at Maison Lyonese in nearby Marble Arch, and although a semi-regular guest at Sketch (an artist member’s club), not being much of a drinker owing to gastric issues, he spent most of his time alone in his flat, painting. He wasn’t well-off but he wasn’t broke, he wasn’t a bad man just kind and quiet, and although his wife had recently recovered from an overdose of sleeping pills owing to Harry uncovering her affair with a car dealer called George Jenkinson, they had contemplated getting a divorce, but resolved it amicably. Harry Michaelson was just an ordinary chap… …so, who would want to kill him, and why? Friday 24th of December 1948. Christmas Eve. Across the city, with rationing partially in force, a festive hum of excitement and frivolity rippled across this brightly lit city as the people shopped for presents. That day, from his Post Office savings account, Harry withdrew £3 (roughly £130 today) to purchase a “a chicken and a piece of lamb”, as well as £2 in silver so he could tip the porters over the holidays. The Christmas Day itself was bright, but with no snow, a cold wind whistled down George Street. Being a man whose body swung from fevers to chills owing to a distant bout of Malaria, even though it was barely above freezing, for the last seven years he’d left his thin bedroom window and his flat door ajar to help circulate the fresh air, but with a trusty team of porters on duty, Harry had always felt safe. Rising at 8am, as always, their little flat hadn’t a single Christmas decoration up, as being Jewish, they didn’t celebrate the holiday, so it didn’t bother them in the slightest that they would spend it apart. At 9am, hired to perform at a slew of hotels in the seaside town of Bournemouth until just after Boxing Day, Anna kissed Harry goodbye and headed off, not knowing that she would never see him again. For Harry, it was a simple day. Throughout the afternoon, as he came across them, he handed each porter several shillings as a thank you for their work and said to one-and-all “here’s wishing you all the best”, He asked the head porter if he could pop the chicken and lamb in their freezer ready for his wife’s return. And at 6pm, 8pm and 10pm, he left via the main door, as having run out of bread – being Jewish – he had also forgotten that today being Christmas Day that most of the bakers would be shut. At 10pm, he returned, and was greeted by the night porters - Samuel Freeland and Frederick Newman - who said that (as usual) he was in a good mood and - although breadless - he wished them both well. As was his routine, Harry undressed, putting his brown striped suit on the chair, his shoes by the bed, a glass of water by the bedside phone, and having finished a good book, in the single bed nearest the door, he drifted off to sleep, snoring loudly, as the fresh winter air ventilated this usually stuffy flat. For the two porters, it was a busy night, as of the 300+ tenants at Fursecroft, several Christmas parties ensured that a steady stream of guests entered and exited via both sets of main doors. Being routine, both were locked at midnight, only the porters had the keys, every guest or resident was only escorted in or out after that hour by the two night-porters, and both doors were only unlocked at 7:30am. Samuel and Frederick both confirmed that it was an uneventful night… …only for Harry, it was a night that (if he could) he would never forget. At 5:15am, night porter Samuel Freeland heard a voice he recognised calling from downstairs, as Harry shouted “Porter! Porter!”. At the door of Flat 75, dressed in his pyjamas and a robe, the ghostly white frame of Harry stood, holding a towel to his head, as a stream of blood ran down his panicked face. Samuel asked, “what happened?”, at which Harry bluntly replied, “never mind, call an ambulance, I’m bleeding like a pig”. Only what Samuel, and possibly Harry, didn’t realise was that Harry already had. With the ambulance on its way, as the porters led Harry to the reception, stumbling and trembling, it was clear that he was terrified, and although he cried – “I am a finished old man. I am dying. I can feel it in my bones and the blood pumping in my brain” - it was clear he had no idea what had happened. The porters assumed he’d had an accident, as nobody had heard a break-in, a scream or an assault. Arriving at St Mary’s hospital at 5:38am, with a single wound to his right temple which was no different to any other injury caused by a domestic slip or tumble, x-raying this 1 ½ inch laceration, a fracture to the skull was identified, a blood clot was removed, and although initially conscious, Harry repeated “I can’t tell you what happened. I don’t know. I have not been in a fight or been drinking. I have not hit my head. All I know is that I discovered a lump on my head which is bleeding and I know I won’t live”. Drifting into a coma, the next day at 12:45pm, Harry died of his injuries… …unable to tell the Police anything about his “accident”. With the investigation headed up by Superintendent Beveridge, DDI Jamieson and Inspector Grange, Harry’s flat didn’t seem like the scene of an assault. Far from it. It was messy, but there was no sign of a struggle. With all three windows locked from within, there was no forced entry. And with blood dotted in a steady line upon the carpets between the bedroom, bathroom and hallway, he grabbed a towel to stem the wound, he made a call for an ambulance, and then he collapsed upon his bed. If it was an attack, it was motiveless, as nothing seemed to be missing; his cheque book was on the side, he had 16 shillings in his suit pockets, and several pieces of saleable artwork hadn’t been touched. With no obvious weapon found, and only Harry’s hair and blood identified, it didn’t seem like a break-in by a stranger, so the police assumed that – if Harry had been attacked – he had let his assailant in. Several suspects were considered: every guest at the Christmas parties in that block were questioned and George Jenkinson (his wife’s former lover) was quizzed, but all had a cast iron alibi. With a wealth of sketches featuring unknown people who had posed for Harry found in his bedroom, although it was assumed that he may have sketched his killer before the attack, this was proven to be unlikely. And even though two of the porters had criminal records with one for violence, all eight were ruled out. The lack of evidence was driving the detectives towards a dangerous assumption, that “we believe he knew his killer”, and although “the theory that he was attacked by a walk-in thief has not been ruled out”, it didn’t seem logical that a stranger would break-in, steal nothing and leave as if he wasn’t there. On closer examination, Anna found that Harry’s black leather wallet was missing from inside of his suit jacket, and hidden by the steady stream of blood drops by his bed, on the leg of the metal tubular chair lay a finger and palm print which didn’t belong to Harry, Anna, the police or any of the porters. With the autopsy conducted by Dr Donald Teare, identifying two crescent shaped fractures to the right of his skull, one 5 ½ inches and the other 2 ½ inches long which split into sharp shards and punctured his brain, it was confirmed “that the tubular steel chair was the most likely cause of the wounds”. This was no accident. This was a murder. But who had killed Harry, and why? Three weeks after his death, the police had hit a brick wall. They had assumed that he had known his assailant, but with Harry being a solitary figure, they had exhausted every suspect, and with no sign of a break-in or a struggle, his killer was unlikely to be a burglar – so who had attacked him was unknown? The breakthrough in the investigation came down to an off-duty constable, unconnected to the case. On Tuesday 18th of January 1949, PC Walsh spotted two men in dark clothes acting suspiciously in St John’s Wood, outside of two affluent houses on Grove End and Hamilton Terrace. And as they dipped between the shadows, slipped down dark alleys, and furtively peeped in through unlit windows, calling for backup, at 5:55pm, PC Walsh arrested 26-year-old Thomas Collier and 21-year-old Harry Lewis. With the details of every local burglar being passed to the murder squad, taking their fingerprints, police found a perfect match to the murder of Harry Michaelson, which were linked to Harry Lewis. Questioned at Paddington police station, Harry Lewis would swiftly confess “it has come at last. I didn’t think I would get away with it. When I read about it in the newspapers, I knew he was the man I hit”. But who was he, and why had he murdered Harry? Born 28 years before and 170 miles north-west of Harry Michaelson’s birthplace, Harry Lewis was the illegitimate son of Annie Lewis, a single mother. Unable to support herself, being admitted to the Poor Law Institution at Hawarden in north-east Wales, aged three, Harry Lewis was abandoned and for the rest of his childhood, he would be bounced from foster parents to orphanages and penal institutions. From ages three to nine, he spent in the dark depressing gloom of the Cottage Homes orphanage in Holywell, where a lack of love left him feeling abandoned, lost and angry at the world. For one year, he was briefly boarded-out to a Mrs Williams in Leeswood, and although she said he was “likable and well-behaved”, getting sick, he was sent back to the orphanage where he would stay for nine years. Aged twelve, with the Second World War having erupted, against his will, he was sent to the Nautical Training School at Portishead, where destitute and neglected boys were giving hard military discipline, being barked at and bullied by authority figures, with the aim to find him a role in the Merchant Navy. Subjected to four years of compulsory discipline, his report describes him as “unsatisfactory… with numerous instances of dishonesty and theft… he is a boy greatly lacking in decent moral principles”. Booted out of the Nautical Training School and bounced back the Public Institution at Holywell, his file lists him as “troublesome, insolent, unmanageable and a confirmed thief”, and lasting a few weeks as a labourer at the Steel Works in Shotton, Harry was seen as “a poor workman and mentally weak”. What followed was a series of committals to institutions and petty criminal acts. In December 1943, aged 16, he was placed on probation back at the Holywell Public Institution, where he absconded. In January 1944, he was sentenced to 28 days for stealing cigarettes. The next month, he was committed to two years at the Approved Probation Home for Youths in Stonebridge Park. And although aged 17, having enlisted as a private in the Middlesex Regiment to avoid more time in borstal; he was fined £7 in Chester for forgery, sentenced to 2 years at Marylebone for theft, and discharged from the Army for theft and assaulting a woman, that had been his entire life up unto the age of 20. On 7th December 1948, just 18 days before, Harry Lewis was released from Wormwood Scrubs prison. Described as “a violent and undisciplined man whose record reveals no redeeming features”, even though he was married and had a three-year-old child; he didn’t have a job, he didn’t have a home, his wife had – rightfully – fled from her violent abusive husband, and he had nothing. Abandoned, just like he had been as a baby, he drifted across the city, with no money, no hope, no life and no future. By the Christmas Day of 1948, Harry Lewis had never met Harry Michaelson… …he didn’t know him, and he had nothing against him - he was a stranger. It’s a strange thought, but while the city celebrated Christmas, both Harry’s were sat alone; with Harry Michaelson in a basement flat in Marylebone, and Harry Lewis in a cheap B&B in Euston. And whereas one made his living bringing joy with his sketches, the other knew nothing but theft, “It was early on Sunday morning”, Harry Lewis said, “I’d no money and I thought I’d break into a house and get some”. It was between 2am and 3am, when passing the corner of Brown Street and Nutford Place, that Harry Lewis happened to stumble upon a thin window left open a crack, by a man whose dose of malaria 30 years before had left his body swinging from fevers to chills, even on a cold night like this. “There was a big drop down into the basement, so I jumped the railings and dropped”, far from the porter’s view. Hidden in the dark, as the convicted burglar crept along this concrete slit, “I opened the window and heard a man snoring”. Breaking into a dark but occupied flat was riddled with risks like injury, capture, arrest and even death, but being desperate, it was worth the risk, just as long as Harry was silent. “I climbed in. It was dark. I was feeling my way round and came to the bottom of a bed at the far end”. That being Harry’s bed, in which he slept, his slumber just a single sound from being broken. “A man’s trousers was lying on a metal chair, I took a wallet, some coins, and I then went out into the hall”. As a stranger staggering about in an unfamiliar flat, he had no idea that the hall only led to the kitchen-cum-bathroom with very little in it, the corridors of Furzecroft which were patrolled by night porters, a set of main doors which had been locked many hours before, and that the only item of any real value which was worth stealing was the wallet. Harry didn’t know that, but by then, his luck had run out. “When I got into the hall, a chap sat up in bed and said who’s there”, Harry: “who’s there?”. With the owner awake, the only way out was through him and the window from which he’d entered, “the chap was just getting out of bed. I was frightened of getting caught… so I picked up the metal chair. It was the first thing I could put my hands on, and I thought I could knock him out with it, just a bash on the head. He fell, but started getting up again. I swung the chair again and gave him another bash. He was then leaning against the wall on his left side. I then dropped the chair and left, the way I come in”. Fleeing into the cold night, and hopping into a taxi on Edgware Road, the burglar of 75 Fursecroft got away with four £1 notes and two 10-shilling notes, barely enough to last him until the end of the week. It was a random attack by a total stranger for the sake of some quick cash. Harry Michaelson was small and sick, so there was unlikely to be a struggle. And with the attack swift, very little to steal, and no obvious point of entry or exit, the detectives had made a lazy assumption based on the evidence they had, but it was wrong, and they wouldn’t realise the truth until Harry Lewis made a full confession. Back in the flat, slumped upon his bed, as blood poured down his head, the detectives wouldn’t suspect that the thin casement window was how the burglar had got in, as – doing what anyone else would do having been attacked in their home – Harry Michaelson had locked it and drew the curtain. It’s tragic, but Harry could have survived his attack. Only, being helpless and alone, with his wife many miles south, the porters above and his neighbours asleep having heard nothing, stumbling about his lonely flat with no memory of what had happened, the sharp shards of his fractured skull dug into his brain, leaving him confused, bleeding and afraid. It’s likely he’d spent at least two hours, maybe three, either collapsed on his bed or wandering about unsure why his head was bleeding. But having momentarily regained a short sense of consciousness, he phoned for an ambulance at 5:12am, and called the porter “Porter!” three minutes after that. Thirty-three hours later, Harry Michaelson was dead. (End) Tried at the Old Bailey on 9th of March 1949, before Lord Chief Justice Goddard, Harry Lewis pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the murder of Harry Michaelson. He didn’t deny the burglary or the attack, stating “I saw in the newspapers a photo of the window I had got through, and I realised the man I had hit was dead. I did not know the dead man. It was just a chance shot that I entered the place that night. And although I hit him hard, I did not mean to kill him. I did it just to get away without being caught”. That same day, although one of the jury had to be expelled as he objected to the death penalty, a jury of ten men and two women deliberated for 35 minutes and unanimously found him guilty of murder. Sympathising with his tragic upbringing, the jury recommended mercy for Harry Lewis, but with his appeal was dismissed on the 21st of April, he was executed by hanging that very same day. Harry Michaelson was buried in East Ham Jewish Cemetery and Harry Lewis was buried in Pentonville Prison. That said, the murder of Harry Michaelson might never have been solved, had the detectives not been so dogged as to assume that he had let in his killer. As Eugene Fordsworthe said, “assumption is the mother of all mistakes” and by making a simple assumption, they had made the mother of all mistakes. And although there was a small chance that as he lay in his hospital bed, that ‘one minute Michaelson’ could sketch his killer as the detectives hoped, by that point, that’s all his memory was – sketches. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-TWO:
On Friday 23rd April 1960, 23-year-old Elaine Baker finished her shift as a striptease artiste at the Peeperama on 47 Frith Street in Soho. It was an odd job for her to do, as she was so quiet and shy. Fifteen minutes after her arrival back home at 19 Tredegar Square in Bow, East London, she stabbed her boyfriend to death. But why?
THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a dark grey/sludgy coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Soho', among the mess of markers. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Frith Street in Soho, W1; one street north of the Taj Mahal killing, a few doors south of the five-shilling striptease, the same building as the last failed erection of The Blackout Ripper, and a few doors down from the shopkeeper who sold more than bacon - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 47 Frith Street currently stands Ronny Scott’s jazz club, a musical institution, where nightly swarms of hipsters’ form - wearing cravats, bowties, monocles, feather boas and top hats, as nothing says ‘I have no personality’ like dressing like a Victorian street urchin at a Mardi Gras – and where they hope to hear some nice jazz, like, you know, something with a recognisable melody? But instead they end up listening to that free-form bollocks which sounds like an asthmatic stomping a seal pup to death. Back in the 1960s, at 47 Frith Street was a seedy little strip-club called Peeperama, where sad losers got their jollies by ogling bored ladies jiggling their wobbly bits. One of those ladies was Elaine Baker, a young woman with dreams, who was described as “one of the shyest striptease artistes I have ever met”, and although it looked as if she was having fun, behind her painted-on smile lay pain and anger. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 232: Finally, a home. Everybody has a dream. For some, it’s something they can achieve by themselves; whether to paint, to write or to build a business, where all they need is themselves and belief. Whereas for others like Elaine, her dream of a home, a marriage and several children required a second person - a husband. Elaine Baker began life as Elaine Barkworth on the 10th of August 1936. She said she knew little about her early life, her family and her upbringing, incorrectly telling the Police that she was born in Manchester, but maybe her childhood was something she had chosen to forget? Raised in the district of Bucklow in Cheshire, she never spoke of her father, she didn’t have a loving relationship with her mother, and as at least one of five siblings, she had two brothers and two sisters, but being taken into care when she was only 12, she spent most of her formative years in foster care. Denied love and guidance, as she was bounced between care homes and foster parents owing to her parent’s neglect, although her abandonment had made her incredibly caring and maternal with a deep desire to be loved but also to give love, regressing into herself, she became the epitome of shyness. As a short curvy redhead with pale skin and freckles, she always looked young, and later described as “a pathetic little creature”, for the price of a kiss, a hug or a little compassion, often she was easily led. In 1954, when she was 18, her foster mother died. And although legally an adult, no longer being the burden of the council’s responsibility, she was out on her own, even though she was still only a child. Described as being of lower-than-average intelligence owing to inconsistent schooling, she earned her way as a single girl through a series of manual jobs in laundries and hotels, and through necessity, she received three minor convictions: for the theft of a coat and stockings, a breach of probation and ‘the use of insulting words’. She wasn’t a bad person, she just lacked trust in others, and for good reason. Her late teens were riddled with more tragedy than most people could cope with in a lifetime. In 1953, aged 17, she lost all contact with her mother and her father she couldn’t remember. On 18th of August 1955, aged 19, as part of her dream, she gave birth to a child, but being illegitimate in an era when a single mother was as sinful as theft, she was forced to give it up for adoption. And on 14th May 1956, after just three weeks of unhappy abusive marriage to Karl G Baker, yet another dream had shattered. In August 1958, with no family, no home, no children and no marriage, every part of her fantasy was broken, and being desperate to leave all of her pain behind, she fled to London to start a new life. Three months later, she would meet Ronnie, the man of her dreams. As a shy uncertain girl, it took real courage to come out from behind her shadow to work as a cinema usherette at the Troxy on East London’s Commercial Road. Burdened by a soft voice, a quiet manner and a pale face which blushed like a little cherry tomato whenever a stranger spoke a few words to her, although far from outgoing, maybe it was her childlike qualities which lured Ronnie towards her? Three years her junior, 20-year-old Ronald was born and raised in London. As a six-foot three-inch hunk of loveliness, with a boyish face, a mop of dark hair and a big beaming smile, although he towered over this tiny redhead, Elaine was instantly smitten. Seeing him as marriage material, they moved in together, and with him earning three times her wage as a labourer, life looked promising. Elaine would state “for six or seven months we have lived together as man and wife” in different parts of East London. Unable to afford much, at the start of March, they moved into a small basement room in a shared lodging at 19 Tredegar Square in Bow. And although it wasn’t much, it was their home. The kitchen they shared with several others, but that was no problem, as it was clean, it had the latest mod-cons and most of the lodgers were quiet and helpful. Barely 10 feet square and with not even enough space to swing the proverbial cat, although their bed sitting room was a little pokey, it had everything this young couple needed; a sofa which folded out into a bed, a radio to play their records on, a decent sized wardrobe for all of their clothes, and even two porcelain cats to make it look nice. It was the start of something special for Elaine. Finally, she had a home. A place to call her own. With a job that she liked, the man who she loved, and – having come from nothing – there was talk of the things that she dreamed of the most, a happy marriage, many babies and a life of unbridled happiness. Her dream had finally come true… …and yet, once again, it would end in tragedy. It made sense that Ronnie paid the lion’s share of the bills, as he earned £11 per week whereas she only took in enough for the rent and little more than that. But as a bone-idle dawdler who despised the daily grind and would rather spaff his cash up the wall by seeing his pals and quaffing pints, “I used to get annoyed”, Elaine would state “because Ron wouldn’t go to work”. In short, he couldn’t be arsed. In court, the judge described Ronnie as “a worthless creature who treated her like an oriental chattel”; little more than a skivvy who made his meals, cleaned his clothes, and funded his nights on the sauce. With the Troxy on its final year as a cinema, before it shut, shifts were short and with their being few jobs she could do, “we had one or two arguments about this, but we’d always make up afterwards”. It was then, that - instead of agreeing to get off his arse and earn an honest living like any prospective husband with half a brain cell and an ounce of love in his heart - he made Elaine an indecent proposal. It wasn’t her thing, but – it was said – that Ronnie had taken her to Freddie’s Tropicana Club on Greek Street in Soho. It served drinks and it played music, only it wasn’t a nightclub, but a seedy striptease. The Tropicana at 11 Greek Street was a sleezy little cesspit, hidden under a cheesy café and accessed by a set of dark-lit steps, it led down to a dingy basement which stunk of bad breath, body odour, stale ciggies and an unerringly salty stench which made anyone with a set of working nostrils gag and retch. As the only female customer, Elaine couldn’t help but feel a sickening wave of revulsion wash over her as a gaggle of perverted little gits, grinned lasciviously as they eyed her tiny body up and down. Only, Ronnie hadn’t brought her here for fun, but for work. Having nagged incessantly, although a shy girl who blushed uncontrollably and was insecure about her shape, he wanted her to become a stripper. Yes, she would hate it. Yes, she was afraid. And yes, just the thought of it made her feel nauseous. But with it paying £12 per week, three times her miniscule wage as a cinema usherette, a little bit of saucy nudity would clear their back rent and any unpaid bills, until he found work and got back on his feet. It was something she didn’t want to do, but for him, she would. And with the Tropicana’s owners also running the Peeperama on Frith Street, although the manageress said, “she was the shyest stripteaser there”, Elaine’s demureness lured in the perverts who – through her – fantasied about shy young girls. To cover their debts, she started stripping at the start of March. After that, Ronnie didn’t work again… …as with her earning more than him, he didn’t have to. Friday 23rd April 1960 started out as most days often did… with an argument. Over the past few weeks, as he became lazier, more self-entitled and often woke late with a hangover after a jolly night out with his pals paid for by her, and as their fights had become physical, she used make-up to hide her bruises. Three days before, Ronnie had finally got a job labouring on a building site. Elaine would say “I set the alarm for 7:30am, but he didn’t get up” – he didn’t want to and (in his mind) he didn’t have to. Having made breakfast, Elaine used a torch to navigate their messy bed-sitting room as the light-switch he had said he would fix was still broken, and with him “still in bed as I left at 11:05am, I asked him if he was going to work. He said he was. As I left our room, I left the door open thinking that would make him get up, but as I went up the stairs to head out, he slammed the door shut and that made me mad”. He wasn’t going to work, she knew that. With 10 shillings in her purse, she’d given him two-thirds to put food in the cupboard, which she hoped he would do. And although she’d work a 12-hour shift until nearly midnight to earn money for them, she guessed that by the time she got back, he’d be drunk. The Peeperama at 47 Frith Street was as equally seedy as the Tropicana. Being just shy of Old Compton Street, this side of Soho was surrounded by pubs, brothels and similarly seedy establishments, which catered for some of the most pathetic losers imaginable who lived for drinking, leering and wanking. Like any other striptease, this venue was as erotic as an abattoir, as a parade of bored women sat behind a foul-smelling curtain waiting to be ogled like pieces of meat before some drooling deadbeats. For these stars of the show, there was no dressing room, no glamour and no hints of Hollywood, just a few stools, a brimming ashtray, a curtain rail of unwashed slutty outfits they’d only wear for a few minutes at best, a cracked make-up mirror with a single stark bulb overhead, and an overflowing toilet. It was about as sexy as a dose of dysentery, but for a few sad gits that night, it was enough. For Elaine, “I learned the job, but I didn’t like it”, so as the purple curtains were pulled apart, again like a wound-up automaton, she started to dance. With no stage just a sticky carpet, a single light which was hardly flattering, and a cheesy track playing in mono through a crackly record player, surrounded by a semi-circle of creaky chairs and sleezy men stifling semis, a sea of leering eyes ate up every inch of her unveiling skin as with hands in their pockets, they all bobbed up and down to the sexy rhythm. Still painfully shy, as much as she hated it, Elaine did what she needed to do, to live and survive. Like so many others, although her body danced, behind her eyes she was dead, as the second she saw the sad bastards before her, she knew that all she wanted to do was to spit in their faces, or be sick, so as she jiggled her bare breasts a few feet from several possible rapists, three things occupied her mind: Hunger: as having given her boyfriend every penny she had, only able to afford a sandwich and a cup of tea all day, she was weak, and tired, and aware that the audience could hear her rumbling belly. Drugs: as being conscious of her weight, struggling to stay awake and needing something it soothe her pain and shame, she’d started drinking, and taking Preludin, an appetite suppressant and a stimulant. And finally, there was hope: as still believing that her dream could still come true, “I hope that Ronnie would get a job and that we’d get married”. But deep down, she must have known it was a lie… …as back home, a nightmare awaited her. At midnight, Elaine exited the tube at Bow, her feet aching after twelve hours tottering in high heels, dodging kisses and ducking gropes as a butt-crack of losers headed home to their wife’s cold shoulder. With her cheeks sore from grinning inanely, as she entered the dark silence of Tredegar Square, again her belly rumbled having barely eaten a thing all day. She hoped that she’d be welcomed home by her husband-to-be with a soft kiss, followed by a nice meal lovingly prepared by him, but it was not to be. “When I walked into the kitchen, I saw there was no meal”; there were no plates on the table, nothing boiling on the hob, and no food in the cupboard, just half a bag of old potatoes, barely at their best. “I went into the front room which was in darkness”, as after weeks of complaining, he hadn’t fixed the light switch, he hadn’t even attempted to fix the light switch. In fact, as always, he had done nothing. Flickering her lighter, by its limp orange glow “I saw Ronnie lying on the bed with his clothes on”, him all sprawled out like he’d had a hard day; the stale odour of beer and cigarettes on his breath, and the seven shillings she had given him for food was gone having been blown on getting pissed with his pals. “I asked him if he had been to work. He rolled over and said, ‘what’s it to you?’, I said ‘If I’m working so should you, or are you going to start your old tricks again?’ By this, I meant not bothering to work. He then said, ‘I’m sick’, I replied ‘the only thing you’re sick with is idleness’. He then called me a ‘bloody bastard’ and as I turned, he jumped out of bed, and we argued”. It was like every other night prior. He told lies, he made excuses, he never once thanked her for keeping them float by paying the rent, clearing the bills, and putting food in his belly. “And as he slapped me round the face, I tried to hit him back, but I could not reach him”, as this six-foot three-inch hulk towered over the tiny frame of Elaine. She told Detective Superintendent Beal, “I walked into the kitchen and went to a drawer and took out a knife”. When asked, “Is this the knife?”, showing her a small four-inch blade, she replied “yes, I was going to peel some potatoes and make chips. Ronnie came in behind me, I asked him if he wanted any, he said, ‘what do you care if I eat or not?’. We had words and hit me on the nose and forehead”. As her eyes filled and her nose bled red, knowing this would be another bruise she’d have to hide, she stood there shaking, knowing that this was what her life had become. There was no dream, only shit. What happened next may never be known, as Elaine’s recollection was hazy at best. Initially, she told the Police, “he walked into the kitchen and then called out”, (“Elaine!”) “when I went into the hall, he was lying there covered in blood”. The DS asked “as far as you were aware, you were the only person in the basement with him at that time. So, how do you suggest he was stabbed?”, at which she replied, “I don’t know. He might have done it himself. He was always saying he was fed up”. As those words stumbled from her fumbling mouth, they all knew it was a lie, as her fingerprints were found on the knife’s handle, and his blood had poured down her waist, her legs and her feet. Only it was clear that she was not evil woman hellbent on murdering her man, this was just a frightened girl who was in panic and fear, grasping at straws, as the life she had always dreamed of was now over. Later, Elaine would claim it was an accident “he walked out into the hall and called ‘Elaine! Elaine!’. At first, I thought he was fooling. I thought something must be wrong. I walked out and saw Ronnie lying on the floor, crouched up and a lot of blood, and I realised I must have stabbed him with the knife”. At that point, unsure what to do, Elaine shouted for Michael Molloy, a labourer who lodged in a back room on the ground floor who had always been very decent to both. Oddly, when questioned, Michael confirmed “I went to sleep and heard a scream. I thought I was having a nightmare, so I took no notice. A couple of minutes later, I heard Elaine calling me hysterically, and I thought something was wrong”. And it was. Michael would state “I found Ronnie lying at the bottom of the stairs on his stomach. I turned him over and saw blood. Elaine was kneeling over Ronnie; she was sobbing, calling his name”. As blood pooled around Ronnie like a sticky red halo, desperate to stop the bleeding, Michael started searching for a wound, “Elaine was very excited and in trying to find where the blood was coming from she tore the shirt completely off. I said, ‘this chap has been stabbed’, but she made no comment”. Dragging Ronnie to the kitchen, the only room with a working light, making do as best he could to save his life “I collected some clean underpants to dress the wound. He was coughing. I laid him on his back, had Mrs Hynes call for an ambulance, and I covered him with blankets as that seemed all I could do”. When asked why she’d changed out of her bloodied clothes and why Ronnie’s blood had been washed away, Michael replied “the floor was completely covered with blood which I mopped up. I told Elaine to get dressed and clean herself as she’d have to go to hospital” – as to him, this wasn’t a crime scene, but a shared house in which many people lived, including this young couple who often had fights. With the ambulance arriving faster than the police, as Elaine got in to accompany Ronnie to hospital, when PC Adams asked, “what happened?”, again in panic, she said “I don’t know. I didn’t see”. Not realising that everything thing she said and everything she did would be used in evidence against her. With Ronnie gasping for breath, when the ambulanceman asked “what happened?”; she said she didn’t know, she said she’d tell him later, and then “he was playing with a knife, he had an accident”. And when asked in court to recall her words, both of these professionals did so, without hesitation. And although they had sped just a short distance to Mile End hospital, by the time they had arrived, with a single stab wound to the heart, Dr Lucas would inform Elaine that Ronnie was dead. Becoming hysterical, she kept saying “it can’t be, it can’t be”, and on several occasions in the hospital and on route to Bow Police station, she became violent, and she had to be retained as she tried to flee. Questioned at 1:20am, an hour after their fight, asked to tell the truth, Elaine sobbed “I did do it. I was making chips, I had the knife in my hand, and I said, ‘have you been drinking?’, he said ‘yeah, so what, I’m not gonna to sit and wait about for you every evening’. I saw red and struck out with the knife”. An autopsy conducted by Dr F E Camps at Poplar Mortuary would confirm “he had superficial scratches to his right arm and his upper chest” indicative of a fight with a long-fingernailed woman, “and a single stab wound midway between the nipples, which passed between the ribs, and embedded four inches deep (the full length of the blade) through the end of the heart and part of one of the valves, resulting in extensive internal bleeding of the left side of chest”, which was the primary cause of death. And with the Scientific Officer of the Met’ Police Laboratory unable to find any trace of alcohol in his blood or urine, the knife having been wiped clean of his blood, and Elaine having changed her story several time to several witnesses, having started with nothing, now her life was over. (End) Held at Holloway Prison, the medical officer would state “she has shown no evidence of mental illness, she has extensive bruising to the left-hand side of her forehead, upper chest, upper arms, both thighs and lower legs. All of these injuries are recent, within the timeframe of the incident”, and although impulsive and emotional, she didn’t show any sign of aggression, but got upset talking about her past. With the press taking pity on her predicament, a nationwide appeal was made to find her parents, and – after almost seven years apart – Elaine and her mother Constance were reunited at Holloway Prison. Tried at The Old Bailey on the 21st of May 1960, she pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder owing to provocation, with the prosecution not asking if she had intended to kill him, but to do him harm. When cross-examined, the Met’ Police’s scientific officer stated that no alcohol was detected because “it is destroyed a rate of ¾ of a pint per hour”, and with the pathologist confirming that – although considerable force had been used to stab him - “if, at the time, the body was moving forward, it does not need a great deal of force. It is no more than just an ordinary push”. Implying that if he was moving forward to attack her, she could conceivably have stabbed him by mistake, as she had initially thought. Described by the judge as “a pathetic creature who was full of remorse for the man she still loved”, three days later and after four hours of deliberation, a jury of nine men and three women found her not guilty of murder and not guilty of manslaughter. When the verdict was read, it was said she wept. As she was led away to freedom, when interviewed on the steps of the Old Bailey, she said “I was very much in love. I felt I could reform him. Perhaps then for the first time in my life I would have a home”. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY-ONE:
On Sunday 31st of July 1904, at roughly 12:30am, a fight broke out near the doorway of 23 Greek Street in Soho between two young men; Edward Devanney and Raphael Ciclino. Amidst a mele of fists and drunken yells, although its witnesses spoke of the shouts they’d heard and blows they’d seen, it seems strange that no-one saw the truth.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a dark grey coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Soho', among the mess of markers. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Greek Street in Soho, W1; a few doors south of William Crees‘ deadly dose of syphilis, a few doors west of Susan Latterney’s Stockholm syndrome, a few doors up from Joe Gynane’s drug-fuelled murder spree, and a few steps from the hobo tax-collector - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 23 Greek street currently stands a five-storey office block, with the shell of Pleasant Lady Jian Bing’s Chinese street-food stall below and the stench of avocadoes and falafel coming from the production companies above. And with a horrible pebble-dashed façade like a statue’s been sick, a set of nasty white windows reminiscent of a 1980s comprehensive, and its graffiti covered wall wreaking of wee-wee, it’s so ugly, it looks like an architect sat on a box on Meccano and thought “meh, that’ll do”. Back in 1904, at 23 Greek Street stood a provisions shop called Dearden’s ran by the Dearden family, and above, in a modest three-storey terrace house was their home with space for several lodgers. On Sunday 31st of July 1904, at roughly 12:30am, a fight broke out near the doorway of 23 Greek Street between two young men; Edward Devanney and Raphael Ciclino. Amidst a mele of fists and drunken yells in a brawl which risked one man’s execution and another’s death, although its many witnesses spoke of the shouts they’d heard and blows they’d seen, it seems strange that no-one saw the truth. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 231: The Good Samaritans. Drinking and fighting are nightly staples of most cities, as once the pubs are shut, a puke of insensible idiots, incapable of rational thought after they’ve had a whole pint of ‘happy juice’, grunt like flatulent pigs as their lonely braincells command sovereign-ringed fists to pummel another Neanderthal’s head. Some say good riddance to these dregs of society… …but sometimes, there can be more to a fist fight than at first glance. The night of Saturday 30th of July 1904 was a hot one, as steam rose from a recent downpour on the streets, and with the air sticky, it seemed like the only way to quell the city’s temper was by drinking. 25-year-old Edward Thomas Devanney was a superintendent at the Hippodrome in Leicester Square. Holding down a steady job and living in a one-roomed lodging on New Compton Street, he had no real plans for the future, as he was all about Saturday nights out with his pals, with a few pints and a fight. Described as a ne’er-do-well, a yob, an oaf and a lout, he wasn’t the best blessed with brains, and once he’d got a few pints inside of him, he didn’t care who got hurt, as it was all about his pride and his fun. With a conviction for stealing a purse and a watch, he served 8 months hard labour. Having not learned his lesson, he stole another watch and served another 12 months. And with 12 more months for more theft, and 12 more months for the assault of a policeman, he’d spent 4 of his 7 adult years in prison, and – having shat his life away – he was unlikely to deviate from a path of theft, drink and violence. But then again, morons will always be morons. Having finished his shift at the Hippodrome, Edward did what he always did and headed out to Soho for a few pints with his pals; Arthur Langley, Edward Lynch and his brother-in-law James Albert Lee. As a 32-year-old labourer with scars, tattoos and cut knuckles, Arthur Langley had served nine years plus for theft, burglary and assault. But having realised he had wasted a third of his life, having almost gone straight, he hadn’t been arrested in five years. As for the other two, Edward Lynch was a local tailor who – being red-faced and a bit too loud – was prone to brawling but rarely got into any trouble, and James Lee, who – as a sober man – often stood quietly at the back, as tall and thin as a bean pole. And not being much of a drinker, James tried his best to keep his brother-in-law out of trouble… …and although he would try, he would not always succeed. Finishing his shift at the Hippodrome at 11:30pm, during which (as he often did) he had got pissed, Edward met up in a pub on Shaftesbury Avenue with Edward Lynch, Arthur Langley and James Lee, where it is said he swigged back three pints, until the pub called ‘last orders’ at just gone midnight. Booted out of the beverage shop and (almost certainly) singing a dirty little ditty about an impressively bosomed girl called Sally, the lads headed into Soho, and – for reasons which were never explained – they slunk to 23 Greek Street, where one of the Hippodrome’s super’s called Freddy Hopkins lodged. With their drunken bravado echoing across the deserted street, at about 12:30am, although the shop was shut and lights in the lodging above were out, Edward banged hard, and rang the bell incessantly. Waking Maud Dearden with a start, the landlord’s 18-year-old daughter said she heard “singing and banging… men shouting, and what sounded like a something being smashed”, and with their raucous braying unsettling the sleeping children, Maud stormed downstairs, her little sister cowering behind. Among the dark of the hallway, as a light burst in from outside owing to the broken front door hanging off its hinges, all she saw was the sinister silhouettes of three men; Devanney, Lynch and Langley. As a petite young woman wearing just her nightdress, she should have been scared, but being so used to their obnoxiousness, all she saw was a bunch of slurring intoxicated arseholes staggering around like their hips were made of jelly and demanding “where’s Hopkins… where’s that fat bastard got to?”. This wasn’t a robbery and this wasn’t an assault, this was just three drunks being dickheads. With this being her home and her family, Maud ushered these mashed menaces out, hissing “no, you’ll have to go, he’s sleep, come back tomorrow”, and with bean-pole frame of James Lee – as motionless and vague as ever, and almost silently blending in with the streetlamps – as he slowly shepherded the rear two outside - “come on lads, home time I think” - at that point Edward was still trying to get in. When questioned by the Police, Edward Devanney said “we rang the bell, but did nothing more to get in. Miss Dearden came down... I asked for Hopkins... she tried to stop me going upstairs. That’s it”. But as the lads congregated outside of 23 Greek Street… …a dark and sinister stranger approached. As Freddy Hopkins peered from his window, too cowardly to confront the commotion below, he’d tell the court “I saw a foreign man come round the corner”. Stocky like a bulldog, strutting like a peacock, and as stiff as a seething cobra ready to strike, dressed entirely in black, the dark Italian spat furiously. Having never seen him before, the lads had no idea what he wanted, as in an indecipherable gibberish, the Italian shoved Edward hard - “’ere what’s he saying?”, “nah f**k off mate”, “leave it out”, “I don’t f**king know who he is, nutjob is what”, “are you mad or summat?”, “who the f**k does he think he is bossing me about in my country, it’s a bloody liberty innit?”, “he must be a nutter, bloody eyeties”. But with this foreigner’s fists balled like the heads of two sledgehammers, although they didn’t speak the same language – spoiling for a fight – as James ushered Lynch and Langley across the street to safety, Edward and the ‘foreigner’ got stuck in, knocking seven shades of shit out of each other. As I say, morons will always be morons. Their fisticuffs only lasted a minute at best, maybe two, and with both men pummelling each as much as the other; nobody won, nobody lost, face was saved and with James separating the two, they both went about their ways shouting obscenities from ever-increasing distances - “vaffanculo”, “f*ck you”. And as they walked in different directions – not doubt regaling their pals with a bullshit version of this pathetic little spat – for Edward, although fuming, he’d had a good night, a few pints and a fight. It had begun as quickly as it had ended… …or, at least, that’s what they thought. Having walked up Greek Street, going the wrong direction, Edward recalled “after eighty yards I said I was going home, and I went back down towards Old Compton”, as he lived on New Compton Street. But as they approached the corner, there he was, the ‘foreigner’, right outside of 23 Greek Street. With the Italian facing the other way, and Edward still fuming, instead of letting it be, being nothing more than a drunken lout “I got up to him and struck him with my fist two or three times”. As he often did, James tried his best to break-it-up, shouting "don't a fool, come away", but Edward was in deep. Punching fast and hard, although Edward had the upper hand being a few inches taller, all it took was a single mistake for his life to change forever. As having put the wrong foot in the wrong place at the wrong time, as he tripped over a kerbstone, “I slipped to the ground; and next, he was on top of me”. With the Italian raining down punches and Edward giving him sharp thumps to the gut, the two men pounded on, their bleeding fists slamming into each other’s bodies, as James tried to split them apart. As a mele of flying limbs and furious grunts, it was impossible for any witness on this partially lit street to see what had happened; as some saw fists, others only saw feet, some said several men were at it, others said it was just the two. And although several witnesses were heard to cry "don't two him" and “no blades, come on, play fair”, some saw a knife being pulled, and whereas others saw nothing. Rising to his feet and fearing retaliations from the angry men who surrounded him, as the Italian fled, Lynch recalled “he rushed across the road. Devanny got off the ground and went after him”. Running down Old Compton Street, “Devanney overtook him and struck him once in the face”, but hearing a cry of “Police! Help” from one of the eyewitnesses, as the Italian headed west, the lads headed east. Bleeding from a swelling eye, spitting bloodied spittle and limping ever more profusely as he staggered down Charring Cross Road, with his adrenaline still pumping, it was only as he took a moment to catch his breath, being aided by pals Lynch and Langley, that Edward realised that he had been stabbed. With blood over his hands, and pooling down his legs in a never-ending torrent, with a knife wound to his right buttock, but also his groin - a soft plateau of flesh containing vital arteries and veins - they caught a cab and sped to Charing Cross Hospital. Immediately admitted to casualty and given the very best available treatment for his wounds, a few hours later, 25-year-old Edward Thomas Devanney… …was discharged from hospital and made a full recovery. Mercifully, although he had two knife wounds; one an inch long to his right buttock, and the other in the lower part of his abdomen, having only punctured the skin, these superficial wounds were stitched and dressed, and – with no long-term damage to his vital organs - Edward left and went about his day. The fight had been bloody and brutal, but no-one had died… …no-one. At least, not yet. Like Edward, he didn’t know that he’d been stabbed, but seeing him stumble away from a raging crowd on Greek Street, a taxi driver drove him straight to Charing Cross Hospital. With a seemingly superficial wound to his abdomen, it was stitched and bandaged, but as he drifted in and out of consciousness, with the blade having punctured his intestines, the tall thin frame of the patient grew paler and sicker. As his own guts had poisoned him, knowing he was unlikely to recover, the doctor said, "you know you’re going to die?" and having mumbled "yes", a few minutes later, 22-year-old James Lee was dead. He hadn’t drank, he hadn’t argued, he hadn’t fought, as being a quiet sober man, this good Samaritan had simply stepped in to break up the fight, and yet the blade meant for Edward had ended his life. That night, in a dingy little lodging at 14 Arthur Street in West Brompton, James’ murderer returned. As the dark foreigner entered his gloomy hovel, pulling from his bloodied pocket a bone-handled clasp knife, before stashing the evidence in his drawer, he wiped the blade clean with a rag and a sharpener. Only this was not a callous killer impassive having taken a life, this was a man in panic. 32-year-old Italian Raphael Ciclino was so perturbed by his own actions, that when his landlady (Rosina Martin) came to deliver his breakfast in the morning, she’d state “the door was shut, the room was empty and the bed was dirty as if somebody with muddy clothes had lain on it, and someone had been sick”. Those who knew him said that Raphael wasn’t an uncouth lout, but “a quiet and reserved gentleman who was sober, peaceful and was no bother to anyone”. He didn’t drink or fight, he just worked. The next morning, being too terrified to flee but also too poor to not earn, Raphael returned to his job as a kitchen porter at the French Club on Lisle Street. Having misplaced his hat, although his tatty old waistcoat now sported a new hole and several fresh stains which no-one knew was blood, what made the cooks laugh was his black eye, as ‘apparently’ this stout little man had got into a fight. (laughs) (Banter) “who gave you that then, your missus?”, “men did it, Englishmen”, “ah yeah, right, and how many men we talking?”, “six, maybe ten, I not know”, “ha, six he says, maybe ten, my speckled arse”. He worked his shift as best he could, washing dishes with shaking hands and getting ribbed about his fight, but with his description circulated through Soho, it was only a matter of time until he was caught. On the morning of Monday the 1st of August, Raphael Ciclino was arrested at the French Club having been pointed out by the cowardly Freddy Hopkins. Taken to Vine Street police station, when Detective Inspector Drew stated, “I am charging you with stabbing two men in Greek Street, one of whom has since died”, barely able to converse in broken English, Raphael looked lost. And although it didn’t take an interpreter (who would later arrive) to translate “no fight; me no knife", although that was clearly a lie, his defence was not going to be easy, as the Inspector replied, “sorry mate, I don’t speak French”. So many details would be lost in translation… …and yet, ironically, that was how the fight had begun. The evidence against Raphael was overwhelming. Examined by Dr Mitchell, with extensive bruises to his jaw, nose, legs, knees and the back of his head, the Police surgeon would state “he had been very badly mauled”, and although clearly shocked at how deadly this brawl had been, although he shook and he cried and he repeatedly vomited, there was no denying that – regardless of how remorseful he was now – that fight had led to a man’s death. In his lodging, the Police found the knife hidden in the drawer. With a reddish-brown film on the blade from where he had wiped it clean, although an attempt to destroy evidence was seen by the Police, on the bloodied specks which remained, lay a black fluff matching his pocket’s lining and a sprinkling of tobacco identical to the brand he smoked. And with Dr Ludwig Freyberger confirming that the blade was the same size as the one which had stabbed James to death, Raphael was as good as guilty. Back at Vine Street police station, against a line-up of ten stocky men of Italian appearance, Raphael was picked out by Edward Devanney (his victim and brother-in-law of the deceased), their boozy pals Arthur Langley and Edward Lynch, Freddy Hopkins the coward and Maud Dearden of 23 Greek Street. Questioned with an interpreter present, although he gave a piecemeal statement in a mix of excitable Italian and broken English, repeatedly asserting “I had no knife, only my hands, everyone see that”, even though no-one could recall seeing a knife (not even Edward), it didn’t help that he had lied. Charged with the wounding of Edward Devanney and the wilful murder of James Lee, as two men who he didn’t know and had never met until that moment, the impact of his actions were so overwhelming, that on two occasions, as he sat inside his prison cell, Raphael would attempt to take his own life. Using whatever he could find, in the first instance, he ripped off the buttons from his jacket and (made of highly toxic lead and decorated with lethal-levels of an arsenic-based paint) he swallowed them. In the second instance - having survived owing to quick-witted officers - he strangled himself using his own coat sleeves, and running fast, he ran head-first into the cell’s stone wall until he fell unconscious. Suffering little more than bruises, cuts and a concussion, his suicide attempts would prove futile… …but what had driven this quiet little man to stab a stranger he didn’t even know? The night of Saturday 30th of July 1904 was a hot one, as steam rose from a recent downpour on the streets, and with the air sticky, it seemed like the only way to quell the city’s temper was by drinking. But not for Raphael. Being a sober man, although he was sat in the Swiss Hotel on Old Compton Street with Joseph Berger a cook from the French Club, there was no argument to rile his temper and no excess of drunk to cloud his judgement, as having supped a small wine, he left the pub at 12:30am. His plan was to head off home to bed after a 14-hour shift; he was alone as his pal had said ‘goodbye’, he was walking west towards Charing Cross Road to get his bus, in his pocket he carried a tin of tobacco (as he smoked) and a bone-handled knife (as being porter and often a cook, many men in his line of work carried the tools of their trade with them), and he only stopped because he heard a scream. It was a woman’s scream. Turning off Old Compton Street onto Greek Street, to the side of the provisions shop, he saw the petite frame of 18-year-old Maud, her front door hanging off its hinges, her little sister cowering behind her, and - surrounded by drunken louts - no-one was coming to her aid, not even cowardly Freddy Hopkins. Raised well, unlike others who would have walked by, although he wasn’t a brawler, Raphael came to this lone woman’s aid and - rightly - reprimanded Edward who was trying to force his way back in. He was just a stranger, but he was the good Samaritan that Maud needed in her moment of fear. Only, with no-one having a clue what he was saying - “’ere what’s he saying?”, “are you mad or summat?”, “who the f**k’s he think he is bossing me about in my country?”, “must be a nutter, bloody eyeties” – Raphael would state “I saw a man strike a woman. I spoke to him, but he did not understand me”. And there sits the irony, as at that moment, there wasn’t one good Samaritan, but two. As with both Raphael Ciclino and James Lee trying to stop Edward and protect Maud, these two quiet men had stepped in when others hadn’t, but unable to understand the other, details were lost in translation. Initially fleeing as he was scared, the only reason Raphael returned to 23 Greek Street was because he worried about Maud. Having crossed paths, the only reason James was stabbed was because he was protecting Edward. And the only reason that Raphael pulled a knife was because fearing for his life, as the drunken lout called Edward Devanney had sunk a few pints and was spoiling for a fight. (End) By the end of the month, on 31st of August 1904, before Judge Denman, 32-year-old Raphael Ciclino was tried at the Old Bailey on the charge of malicious wounding and murder. From the witness box and through a translator, he would claim he was set upon by Edward, but also Lynch, Langley and later attacked by James Lee, that as he hadn’t a knife in his possession, he’d defended himself with his fists. Unable to decide who was telling the truth as the evidence confirmed that someone had stabbed both men, as none of the witnesses had seen a knife and even Edward would state “I cannot say for certain who stabbed him”, with the defence claiming provocation, a jury took ten minutes to find him guilty of manslaughter. Sentenced on 15th September, Raphael Ciclino was given eight years' penal servitude. And with Edward seen as one of the victims, no charges of assault, intimidation, criminal damage or violence were brought against him, and – never changing his ways – he continued living his life like a drunken oaf; who stole to suit his needs, who terrorised young girls to make himself feel big, and as a loser, who got into pathetic fights with strangers over nothing, all because his life was worthless. James Lee was buried in Westminster, having only lived 22 years of his young life. Raphael served his sentence and returned to his family in Italy. Two good Samaritans who risked their lives for a stranger. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
On Monday the 25th of February 1935 at 2:30pm, an unusual parcel arrived at Platform 19 of Waterloo Station. At 21 inches long, 9 inches wide and deep and weighing close to two stone, the train's cleaner found a severed paid of legs. And although to some this was just a piece of lost property, it would lead to one of the strangest criminal investigations in the Met Police’s history.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a black coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'London Waterlooo'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Waterloo Station, SW1; one street south of Peggy Richards’ “fall”, a short walk from the ‘happy slapping’ attack on David Morely, a few feet from the left luggage kiosk where the bloodied bloomers of Emily Beilby Kaye lay, and soon something grim - coming now to Murder Mile. As one of London’s busiest transport hubs, the lost property office at Waterloo Station is a treasure trove of bafflingly bonkers cast-offs which make the cleaners wonder who the hell these weirdos are; having found enough books to fill a branch of Waterstones, walking sticks to stabilise sixty-two wonky centipedes and crinkly-paged grumble mags to milk the saddest git’s love-plums dry. And occasionally, they also find a gimp mask, a llama, a breast implant and (far too often) a stool sample - a human one. But many moons ago, they also found something which sparked a nationwide hunt for a killer. It takes a lot to surprise those who work in this lost property office, and although they still diligently catalogue every object they receive to return each missing item to its rightful owner, what they found back in 1935 would lead to one of the strangest criminal investigations in the Met Police’s history. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 230: Pieces. Usually, at this point in the show, I would introduce you to the victim. With the sad music playing, we would hear about their life, their upbringing, their hopes, their struggles and their dreams, everything from the moment they were born to their last moment alive. But this time, I can’t do that… …I can’t even tell you a few pieces about his life, as that is all that was left of him. Monday 25th February 1935 was bitterly cold, as a Siberian blast had driven London’s winter as low as -28. But in contrast, with highs of 3 degrees and lows of -4, that ice-caked day was practically barmy. The day had begun as it always had, as the train (an electric locomotive with twenty-six carriages) pulled out of a railway siding at Hounslow in West London at exactly 6:48am. Scrubbed and polished by a team of cleaners, the train ran a regular route from Twickenham and Waterloo, stopping at twenty-two stations including Richmond, Mortlake, Barnes, Wandsworth and Clapham Junction. At 1:24pm, the train departed Twickenham Station with hardly a handful of passengers in its first-class coaches, some in the second-class and a smattering in the much cheaper third-class. By all accounts, the journey was uneventful and barring a delay owing to ice, it arrived at Waterloo just shy of 2:30pm. With a light dusting of anonymous passengers disembarking from Platform 19 on the north-west side - all of whom showed their tickets to the inspector – another team of cleaners set about removing any rubbish or lost property from the carriages; maybe some newspapers, some books, and occasionally a pair of missing gloves, a scarf or a woolly hat, although that was unlikely in this bitterly cold weather. A few minutes in, James Albert Eves, one of the cleaners made his way down the third-class carriage numbered 94806, carrying a refuse sack. The train was empty, except for an unidentified man who was dressed in a black suit and hat who – he believed - had boarded for the return leg of the journey. James hadn’t the time to consider the items he’d find and having spotted a brown paper parcel pushed right to the back under the seat - with the biggest crime being to delay the train on its predetermined route back to Twickenham - as it pulled out, James carried the large parcel to the lost property office. Handed to the office supervisor, John George Cooper, both men stared with concern at the parcel. At 21 inches long, 9 inches wide and deep, and weighing close to two stone, wrapped in an odd L-shape, it looked as if it was a fat stubby golf club. Only with its string fraying and the paper wet, James would state “I felt the weight was curious, as at the bottom, when I touched it, it felt like there were toes”. Peeping in through a split, there was no denying what was inside, as John said, “we found legs”. Having alerted the Metropolitan Police, Chief Inspector Donaldson headed up the investigation, aided by Dr Davidson of the Police Laboratory and Sir Bernard Spilsbury as the Home Office pathologist. The brown paper told them nothing, as like the string, it was generic. Unwrapping it, the legs had been swathed in tabloid newspapers; an issue of the Daily Express dated 21st September 1934, six months prior, and two sheets of the News of the World dated 20th January 1935, one month before. But being two of the most popular papers, bloodstains suggested that the dismemberment occurred two days earlier, and with the legs beginning to putrefy, that death had occurred at least eight days before that. Inside were the severed legs of an adult male; complete with shins, calves, ankles and feet, but nothing above the knees. With the lower legs and feet accounting for 12% body mass, weighing roughly 12lbs each, it was clear that he was once a man of 5 foot 8 to 5 foot 10 inches tall, but unable to determine his age – at that point – all they knew was that he was somewhere between 20 to 50 years old. It was impossible to identify him, as he had no scars and no tattoos. Examined at Southwark mortuary, they were able to define his details further, but not much. As being a white pale male, given his fair hair and his freckles, it was assumed that he worked outdoors, and having the musculature of a ‘healthy vigorous male’, x-rays showed no signs of ‘Harris Lines’ (the arrest of bone growth in his teens) or any ‘senile changes’, so it was likely he was in near to his late twenties. But as hard as they tried, the victim couldn’t be identified by his lower legs, and that’s all they had. The wounds told them even less about who had dissected them and why, as with “a clean cut through the soft tissue of the knee joint, just below the patella… it was carried out with extraordinary precision by a person with anatomical knowledge”. But who? A surgeon? A butcher? Or was it just blind luck? And yet, one detail would perplex these officers more than most. With the victim’s toes bent like clenched fists as if to make them smaller, given that his legs were shaved, it suggested that either this man had been so poor that he was forced to wear ill-fitting shoes as hand-me-downs, or he’d been masquerading as a woman. Whoever this man once was, the Police had little to go on… …but they were unwilling to give up. Every passenger who could be traced from the train was questioned, but no-one saw anyone carrying a large parcel or anything strange. But then, how often do we notice other people? And with the parcel deliberately pushed back under the seat, it was hidden, but why would anyone hide a pair of dismembered legs onboard of a train which was heading back to its original location? Had the early morning cleaners at the railway siding missed it by mistake, or had someone planned to dump them? Examining the generic brown paper using infra-red light and microscopic analysis, Dr Olaf Block of the Ilford Photographic Company was able to spot two very faint numbers; a partially erased ‘5’ written in black crayon on the bottom left-hand corner, and a ‘14’ written in pencil in the right-hand corner. Across the city and wider boroughs, Police questioned every courier, freight and removals firms, as they were most likely to mark a parcel with identifying numbers, but it came to nothing. And although this tatty brown paper had been used several times previously, not a single fingerprint was found. The newspapers were submitted to the same scrutiny, as with top-right-hand portion of the front page of the Daily Express having been cut away with a sharp knife or a razor, given that this is where some newsagents tend to write the address of the house where the paperboy should deliver it, the Police spoke to hundreds of vendors, but that cut wasn’t unique enough and the handwriting didn’t match. And although they had enlisted the help of two sculptors from the infamous Madame Tussaud’s Wax Museum on Baker Street who made plaster casts of these unusual feet, no-one could identify them. Every piece of evidence had only led to dead ends, and every theory had hit a brick wall. It was suggested that – given how cleanly the legs were dissected – it could have been a prank by a medical student who had removed a pair of amputated limbs from a hospital incinerator. But with the feet being unwashed and the wound devoid of a surgical skin-flap, this theory was quickly discounted. Enquiries were made at hospitals, undertakers and mortuaries whether any body parts were missing, but this turned up nothing. As did the hunt for a butcher or abattoir worker who could have performed such a skilled dissection, “as the knees are particularly hard to disarticulate”, but this too drew a blank. And with the Police appealing for any relatives who were missing a loved one to get in touch, a deluge of families gripped with grief from across the country – regardless of whether their husband, brother or son was a 5 foot 9, fair-haired male in his late 20s, or not – they swamped the phonelines for weeks. So desperate were the Police to solve this case that they had begun to find similarities in the Brighton trunk murders from the year before. But later being dismissed as a theory by Sir Bernard Spilsbury, they were left wondering - why would anyone go to so much effort to disguise the victim’s identity? Or had they? Whether it was a murder or not, they still did not know. Whether he was still alive, they couldn’t tell. And although the Police had some evidence of who this man may have been… …that was all they had – pieces. Three weeks later, on Tuesday 19th March 1935 at about 5:30pm, three boys were playing on the bank of the Hanwell Flight of the Grand Union Canal. As a series of seven locks from the Hanwell Asylum to the River Thames at Brentford, passed a chocking swathe of factories and under two bridges for the Piccadilly Line tube and Southern Railways, Clitheroe Lock was the last before the Great West Road. Having had his tea, 14-year-old Ronald Newman was watching a 70-foot-long cast-iron barge exit the lock, as its weight displaced tonnes of water below it as it slowly headed downstream. But as the wake disturbed the dark calm of the water, “I saw something bobbing up and down”, a little patch of brown as a sack floated on the surface, as underneath a meniscus of mildew, the bulk of its contents dipped. Grabbing a stick, as Ronald drew it near, it was clear that this wasn’t a bag of rubbish, as the sack was as big as a medium sized dog, diamond shaped like a giant stinkbug, and weighed several kilos at least. Heaving with all their might, as the lads wrenched the drenched sack onto the bank, hearing a tearing, they quickly wrestled it ashore as the old rotten sack split. But as Ronald grabbed at its sodden base, as his hand slipped inside the sack, it also slid into a wet festering ooze which stunk like rotting meat. Withdrawing his hand, inside he saw a gaping wound of flesh, and as it slowly dried, within seconds a fever of hungry flies had begun to swarm and feast, at what Ronald knew was “a man’s severed neck”. Having alerted a local Bobby, within the hour, the Met’ Police were on the scene. Untying the string which sealed this hessian sack shut, inside lay a man’s torso; no forearms, no waist, no legs and no head, just a torso. Wearing a tatty brown woollen vest, he hadn’t any of the ordinary clothes a man in his era would wear, no jacket, no shirt nor a tie, just a vest. And with all but the top two buttons missing, and a portion of the lower-left corner having been cut away, it was likely that someone had tried to disguise his identity by removing the laundry marks - but this was just a theory. Having been submerged in the feted water of the canal for several weeks, owing to the decomposition, it was impossible to accurately determine when he had died, or even when he had been disposed of. With his breastbone, every rib and several vertebrae either broken or fractured, with a few ribs poking through the skin like white jagged spears, although the chest had been completely crushed, this wasn’t how he had died as these injuries had all occurred post-mortem, as the cast-iron barges rolled over it. Only this wasn’t an accident, or a body part missing from a morgue, this was undeniably a murder. With no hands nor head found, the erasing of his identity was paramount for the killers, but with the dissection lacking a surgeon or a butcher’s skill, this dismemberment was described as “rather crude”. Lacking the clean slices of a sharpened blade, it was as if someone had been in haste to dispose of this body as quickly as possible, or maybe several men of differing skills had taken it in turns at a side each? Severed at the elbow, the left arm was cleanly cut through the humerus, the radius and the ulna, and where-as the right had been hacked, as a rough jagged knife had ripped the skin and tore at the flesh. With the stomach as crudely ripped as if someone had split a bag of rice, spilling the intestines and its red lumpy guts like a slops bucket at an abattoir, across the top of the hips lay a band of rough tears where the blade had caught and tugged, as a skin flap hung over the innards like a damp cloth cap. And with the neck little more than a fleshy stump severed by blows with a blade and a swung axe, this wasn’t the work of a professional anatomist but a crude killer with a body to disguise. And yet, spotting two wounds to his heart which exactly matched two cuts in the vest, there was no denying… …he had been stabbed to death. The torso told the Police these few facts; as a white male with fair hair, pale skin, freckles and his age initially suspected to be in his 40s to 50s but later determined by x-rays to be in his late 20s, as a well-built broad-shouldered male of roughly 5 foot 9 inches in height, it was likely he was a manual worker. Removed to Brentford mortuary in the grounds of a local gas works, Sir Bernard Spilsbury determined several key details; one, this man was healthy when he died; two, his death was unnatural; and three, there was “a strong presumption” that this torso belonged to the two legs found at Waterloo Station. So, although submersion in water for several weeks had rendered a time of death impossible, based on the legs, it was likely he had been murdered near the 15th February and was dismembered on 23rd. And yet, another unusual detail would pepper this case, as along with his shaved legs and small feet which suggested he was “masquerading as a woman” (a theory which could never be proven), three four-inch-long dark hairs – possibly made from a woman’s real-hair wig – were found on his body. But were they a message, or a mistake? With this stretch of the canal being remote, although questioned, there were no witnesses who had seen anything suspicious, or heard a sack being dumped in the water. But how did he end up here? The Thames Police were requisitioned to drag and drain three miles of the canal, with several hundred yards of it dredged and manually searched, but nothing of significance was found. All barge crews travelling from Coventry to London were interviewed, as well as nomads on the banks, and officials of the Grand Union Canal supplied details about the sluice gates and water flow, but it proved fruitless. One theory as to why the torso was found here was owing to its location, as 200 yards above the lock sits Bridge 206A, which runs the Piccadilly Line train between Boston Manor and Osterley, and 300 yards below sits Bridge 207A, which runs Southern Railway trains from Hounslow to Waterloo Station. The Police mulled over the thought that the torso had been thrown from the train into the canal, and that – maybe - with the severed head and arms tossed into one of several miles of woods or ditches along the train track, and that – maybe - with too many passengers onboard, the killer hadn’t the time to dump the legs before the train reached its destination at Waterloo Station – this was considered. But although the Twickenham to Waterloo train doesn’t pass through Hounslow, and Bridge 207A was downstream from where the body was found, having checked every track siding, nothing was found. That said, the killers could have changed trains, or maybe it was just a coincidence? But with so much evidence leading to this neck of the woods, the Police truly believed that the murderers were local. But who were they, and where were they? With very little to go on, the Police set about tracing the brown woollen vest, hoping that its purchase would lead to the purchaser. Made by Harriot & Coy at a cost of 2 shillings and 6 pence, although this mass-produced vest was distributed to thousands of wholesalers each year, the label was used by one company – a Midlands based garment maker who also sold it to the North of England and Scotland. Every shop which sold the ‘Protector’ brand was questioned, from Bishopsgate to Argyl, Cheapside to Glasgow, but with few records kept of who had purchased this vest, this line of inquiry would stall. As for the sack, with it bearing the name ‘Ogilvie’, a flour manufacturer of Montreal in Canada, when examined, the company confirmed the sack was made in 1929, but was one of 1000s sent to the UK. And although missing persons reports were read for every British county against anyone who matched that description, every lead was checked and proved to be a dead end, and with a less-than-respectable tabloid reporting the discovery of a severed head in Ealing, that was proven to be a lie. With no fingerprints, no teeth, no ID, no laundry marks and no face, his identity was a mystery. Two of the most promising leads they had came in the weeks before the inquest. Continuing the use infra-red rays on the brown paper, Dr Olaf Block had found four words which had been erased – they were “Harry”, “Hanwell” and “Ward 14”. Interviewing the postal clerk at Hanwell Mental Hospital at the back of the Hanwell Flight of the Grand Union Canal, he confirmed the writing was his… but unable to trace who “Harry” was amongst those in “Ward 14”, that clue led to nothing. And the final lead occurred on Monday 25th February at 1pm, 90 minutes before the severed legs were found. At Hounslow Station, Harold Hillier, an attendant saw three men in the booking hall, at their feet lay a large brown-paper parcel. Only one of the men boarded the 1:06pm train to Waterloo, and although he was described as late 20s, medium build and fair-haired, we know he wasn’t the victim. Departing on time, this train didn’t originate in Twickenham, but it did cross the Grand Union Canal at Bridge 207A, downstream of the Clitheroe Lock, where the torso was found. And although the legs were found on a different train, he could have changed at Clapham Junction, or unable to throw them out the window, having arrived at Waterloo Station, maybe he hid them on an outward-bound train? Who these men were nobody knew, but with Harold’s statement backed-up by his colleague Thomas Shea, they confirmed this - that all three men were either Welsh or Irish miners, many of whom were employed locally by McAlpine, who were working on the sewage works and road construction. (End) That clue took the Police one step closer to the victim’s identity. Having questioned Alfred McAlpine, owner of McAlpine Construction, they went through the payroll and employment records for their workers over the last year. But with no-one known to be missing and many of them paid in cash, officers would state “this appeared a most likely clue, but it revealed little hope of success as the firm’s labourers are the flotsam and jetsam of Ireland and Wales”. They had so many clues, but equally as many dead ends and loose threads. On the 10th of April 1935, an inquest was opened at Southwark Mortuary. But with no suspects, no witnesses, no weapon, no fingerprints, and no crime scene to the murder or the dismemberment, on the 6th of June, an ‘open verdict’ would remain into an unknown male torso and a pair of severed legs. Chief Inspector Donaldson would state “every possible enquiry has been made to establish the identity of the victim, but without success. Vigorous but negative efforts have also been made to obtain the identity of the person or persons responsible for this offence”. And with that, the case was closed. Who the victim was will never be known, nor will the resting place of his forearms and head. We don’t know his name, his home or the location of family. We don’t know what he had done, why he was killed, or who by? And denied a proper burial, all that we know of him is all he will ever be… pieces. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
On Friday 27th of March 1959 at 2:50am, Graham Osborn man was found slumped against the railings at 117 Piccadilly. Later dying of his wounds, no-one knew why he was there, few knew that had happened and no-one knew who had attacked him or why. And although the Police would bring his killers to trial, this little-known case would only lead to more questions than it answered.
THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a teal coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'The Green Park'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on the corner of Down Street in Piccadilly, SW1; two streets east of the stabbing by the Angel Delight killer, one street north of the pink-suited bully, one street south of the last drink for Ken ‘Snakehips’ Johnson, and a short walk from the burned mute - coming soon to Murder Mile. A few yards from this corner stands The Athenaeum, a four-star Mayfair hotel, where every guest is greeted by a dapperly dressed doorman; whether they’re a tourist exhausted having been fleeced to within an inch of their wallet by the most expensive city in Europe, or a hideously ugly businessmen who has chaperoned an inexplicably attractive girl (possibly his granddaughter) whose name he can’t recall, to test the springs on his bed for a period of approximately 58 minutes, but not a second more. Coincidentally, the corner of Down Street and Piccadilly is a place where prostitutes often frequent. On Friday 27th of March 1959 at 2:50am, an unidentified man was found slumped against the railings a few doors down. Later dying of his wounds, no-one knew his name, no-one knew why he was there, few knew what had happened and no-one knew who had attacked him or why. And although the Police would bring his killers to trial, this little-known case would only lead to unanswered questions. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 229: Dumped. When people talk about the good old days, they claim, “we all knew each other”, “there was no crime”, “you could leave your door open” and “we looked out for one another” - which we all know is utter crap. Almost every murder we’ve covered disproves this theory, and this case is no different, as with no-one coming to the victim’s aid, ‘not wanting to get involved’ is a skill we’ve mastered for centuries. Friday 27th of March 1959 was the start of a bank holiday weekend, therefore (as is typical in Britain, even on a God-fuelled day like Good Friday) there had been much merriment and quaffing of booze in the city, as the people got a lot more pissed than usual, especially as for many it was their payday. Being halfway between Piccadilly Circus and Hyde Park, although dark, being dotted with a dull yellow haze of streetlights and the murmur from a smattering of inebriates staggering home from pubs or clubs, the southerly corner of Down Street in Mayfair was as quiet and silent as Green Park opposite. At roughly 2:50am, Ralph Platt, a taxi-driver was circling the West End looking for fares. Passing Down Street, slumped against the cast-iron railings of T Browne at 117 Piccadilly, just shy of the Athenaeum, he saw the all-too-familiar sight of – what looked like – a drunk; his head flopped to one side, his suit all dishevelled, a dark stain down his once white shirt and his legs having buckled underneath him. Like an unwanted ragdoll cast outside for the binmen to collect, several people hadn’t thought to stop or were willing to wake him, so they walked on by – with one said to be “within touching distance”. Only Ralph was concerned, as something didn’t look right. “Mate, are you okay?” With the man’s face as pale as marble and his eyes as sunken as caves, as he slurred his words, Ralph saw that the stain on his chest wasn’t vomit, just as the liquid which seeped down his trouser legs wasn’t urine, but blood, as from a deep steaming wound to his stomach, his intestines poked through. At 2:54am, Ralph got on his radio and called his control room: “Zebra 42 to Dispatch”, “Dispatch here”, “Zebra 42 emergency, injured man at the junction of Down Street and Piccadilly, ambulance required, erm, yeah, better make it quick, he’s been stabbed and he’s losing a lot of blood”. “Roger Zebra 42”. Receiving the call on his radio at 2:55am, PC Coster of West End Central police station arrived at the scene within minutes, quickly followed by an ambulance who – identifying his urgent need for blood - sped this barely conscious man to St George’s Hospital on Hyde Park Corner, just three streets away. Taken to casualty, Dr Millar would state “he was severely shocked and incapable of answering any questions… his abdominal wound was obscured by six feet of small intestine and bowel protruding… and stabbed with a knife to a depth of four inches deep, the blade had penetrated the spine”. Being operated upon and given several blood transfusions, the man was taken to recovery, “but with the knife’s blade having pierced the left lobe of the liver”, at 1:52pm that day, he died of his injuries. With his cause of death being ‘blood loss’, had anyone who had seen him attacked or even those who had walked by as he lay bleeding stopped to see if he was okay, it was likely he may have lived… …but they hadn’t. With his autopsy held at Westminster Public Mortuary, Professor Keith Simpson identified that the blade had “almost completely severed one of the main arteries arising from the aorta at the back of the abdomen”, and although the man was described as “tall and powerfully built”, there were no signs that he had fought back. And with two splits to his eyebrow, a break to his nose and two cuts to his upper lip, it was possible he was punched (not with a fist) but “a weapon, probably a knuckle duster”. Alcohol was detected on his breath, but with a blood test unable to confirm how much he had drunk, it didn’t answer why a man with “a superior physique” hadn’t been able to defend against an attack? His murder made no sense at all. With his wallet, his keys and his watch in his pocket, he hadn’t been robbed. With no-one reporting an assault, his attack was quick, probably random and possibly unseen. And with no-one able to confirm where he had been, why he was there, who had attacked him or why, all they knew about this ordinary man - who was possibly drunk and maybe mistaken by a nasty gang of thugs who had pounced on him when he was at his most vulnerable - was a few innocent details: The dead man was Graham John Osborn, a 26-year-old former Guardsman, who being dressed in his traditional bearskin and red tunic had once stood guard outside of Buckingham and St James’ Palaces. But invalided out of the service, until the day he died, he earned an honest wage as a stockman, he was unmarried, he had no children, no criminal record, and he lived with his mother Gladys in Southall. His death made no sense. It seemed accidental and unprovoked… …and yet a code of silence was protecting his killers. The next day, The Daily Telegraph’s headline was ‘Stabbed Man Lay Dying in Piccadilly’ and underneath in bold capital letters the words MURDER HUNT. With the most serious crime having been committed, those who were protecting Graham’s cowardly killers weren’t talking, so the police were appealing to the innocent few who thought they had simply seen a drunk man slumped on the pavement. It read: “for thirty minutes yesterday morning, Graham John Osborn, 26, lay bleeding to death on the pavement in Piccadilly, with people passing by him before police and an ambulance were called. Last night, Police inquiries became a murder hunt”, meaning this was no longer an assault, this was serious. Having ignited a pang of guilt, it continued “Detective Superintendent Manning took charge and today detectives were visiting shelters and coffee stalls used by taxi-drivers to attempt to trace witnesses”. And it worked, as having ignited a sympathy for the dead man and assuring any possible witnesses that there was something they could do, a flood of taxi-drivers came forward, as well as passersby. The article continued: “Scotland Yard appeal for any person who was in the vicinity of Down Street and Piccadilly between 2:20am and 3am yesterday to tell the police immediately… especially those who gathered around Osborn, who was bleeding heavily from a deep stab wound to the stomach”. Having read that and felt ashamed, who wouldn’t call? And so, as those who weren’t held by the code of silence spoke, the mystery over who had murdered Graham Osborn slowly began to unravel. Martin McEvoy, a man of no job nor fixed abode who was walking towards Hyde Park Corner from Green Park Station would state “I saw a young redhaired girl and that man arguing with each other”. The man he positively identified as Graham Osborn, and given the detailed description of the girl he had given and the fact that the corner of Down Street - just to the side of the Athenaeum Hotel - was a popular hangout for prostitutes, officers at West End Central police station had one woman in mind. With a second witness, Andrew Fairlie, the night porter at the Athenaeum corroborating that sighting and with several sex-workers confirming her whereabouts that night, Police questioned 24-year-old Daphne Gillian Cantley, a flamed haired prostitute from Earls Court who was known locally as ‘Bobby’. Clearly terrified, at first, she denied it was her, or that she was even there. But with the Police agreeing to keep her details out of the papers for fear of reprisals, and her guarded at an undisclosed address by a flank of officers, Bobby gave a statement. And although her recall of her encounter with Graham was incredibly detailed, unsurprisingly, her memory of his attackers was patchy and hazy, at best… …but she did give a name. “I only knew one of the men”, she said, describing him as “25 to 30, medium height, stockily built”, but unable to recognise the other: “I had tears in my eyes as I went up to him because I had been crying and was shaking a great deal, but as far as I know, the guardsman and Chick were strangers”. All they had was a vague description and a nickname – Chick. But who was Chick? By the next day, as the name ‘Chick’ echoed across the newspapers as well as every television set, the city buzzed as people started asking ‘who’s Chick’ and ‘where is he hiding’? So worried were local hoodlums of being wrongly accused of murder, that many handed themselves in with satisfactory alibis, and with the description specific enough, even the killers were looking over their shoulders. At an insalubrious hangout called the Cockney Café at Back Church Lane in Stepney, seeing the name ‘Chick’ plastered over the TV news, a labourer called Terry Kenny turned to his pal, a 27-year-old street trader called ‘Chick’ who confided “I’m in bit of bother cos of that bloke in the ‘dilly who got stabbed”. Chick was a wanted man… …and having confessed, “oh Terry, I swear on my baby’s life, it wasn’t me’, although an accomplice, it wasn’t Chick who had murdered Graham Osborn, but a friend who he had unwisely chosen to protect. Born in Poplar, East London on 1st of March 1932, nicknamed ‘Chick’, his real name was William James Joyce. Named after the Irish author, as a young criminal for whom the borstal system had taught him nothing but theft, Chick wouldn’t gain any notoriety as his criminal acts were petty and pointless. In 1950, aged 18, he was fined 40 shillings for dodging the tax on imported cigarettes. In 1952, he was charged with GBH, car theft, housebreaking and larceny, as well as illicit gambling in 1956 and 1957. Of the eight years since he had turned 18, as he had spent four months in prison and four years bound over or on a conditional discharge, many might say, he was a Jack of all trades and a master of none. He was a minor criminal with a violent streak, but he hadn’t committed a murder. The guilty party was his friend, 26-year-old William Henry Heathcote, known as ‘Billy’. Described as cocky and arrogant, like Chick, in the eight years since he had turned 18, Billy had spent three years in borstal and just over three years in prison, for a baffling array of thefts which suggested if it wasn’t nailed down he would nab it, including; groceries, two shoes, a pair of gloves, four shirts, a camera, typewriter, a ophthalmoscope and a pair of bathing trunks, as well as being in possession of cannabis and living off the earnings of prostitution, with the next crime added to his rap-sheet being murder. A fruitless shield of criminal fear hadn’t help to protect them both from a murder investigation. And even though it was only one of them who had plunged the knife into Graham Osborn’s guts… …together, their cockiness would convict both. In the minutes after the murder, although a code of silence would protect them, they weren’t exactly silent about their crime. In a busy billiard hall on Great Windmill Street, Bobby the flame-haired sex-worker was heard to utter “thanks Chick, I won’t forget that” to the two out-of-breath men. She later told Margaret Welstead, another prostitute and her husband John what had happened, and seeing three Police cars speed towards the crime-scene, Chick stated “I’ve been in a little bit of trouble”. While still wearing his bloodstained clothes, Billy admitted to the server at the Bruno Café in Stepney, “the Police are looking for us, there’s been a right old rumpus”, as about him lay the latest news article about the murder, and then they both admitted to their girlfriends “I didn’t do it, it was Chick/Billy”. It wasn’t hard to track them down. Searching both flats, Police found the clothes they wore that night, including Billy’s jacket and shirt which had spots of Group A blood on the left sleeve, and several spots on the inside of Chick’s jacket, all an identical blood group to Graham, but not to Chick or Billy. Yanked out of bed, when the detective identified himself, Chick grinned “the papers say you’re looking for me” and as Billy was led away, he bragged “it’s nothing, I’ll be home tonight”. But with no knife found, what the Police needed was a witness and a confession, which was easier said than done. On Sunday 30th of March, both men were questioned. Cocky to the last, Billy laughed as the detective’s questions, and when asked “where were you at half past two on Good Friday?”, whilst lying down, he spat “fuck off cop, you’re wasting your time. I’m as safe as the fucking bank”, as all innocent men say. Having identified Chick as one of the men, to prove Billy’s guilt, they put him in an ID parade at West Central police station. As Martin McEvoy was yet to come forward, the first witness was Andrew Fairlie the night porter at the Atheneum Hotel, who (in fairness) hadn’t seen much so he didn’t pick him out. The second was Bobby, the redheaded prostitute. Released under guard from a police safe house, as she stood in the station’s courtyard before a line of eight men of similar appearance, she visibly shook. Hesitantly walking up the line from left to right, with Billy being the last man, as she crept nearer, with her voice trembling “no, that’s not him” to each man before her, seeing the scowl on his face, before she could speak, “she staggered back and collapsed into the arms of the inspector, who carried out”. In the line-up, no-one identified Billy. On Tuesday 1st April, although a lack of conclusive evidence meant a conviction was on shaky ground, unable to prove who had stabbed Graham Osborn, both Billy and Chick were charged with the murder. Terrified that he was about to lose his life for a crime he hadn’t commit, with a new witness giving a statement, when Billy was questioned again, he spat “I see, so Chick has opened his mouth. I’m not afraid of him. He’s well known as a grass. If he puts it on me, I shall put it on him”. And with that, both men blamed the other, the code of silence fell, and they told the Police a story that no-one expected. Friday 27th of March 1959 was the start the Bank Holiday. Being British, a smattering headed to church and prayed, most overate and watched the box, while the rest of the country got royally smashed. For Bobby, it was business as usual, as she hung about on the corner of Down Street, hoping to pick-up a punter after the post-pub surge of horny gits had all headed home to their unwitting wives. She’d state “I arrived down there to start business… I noticed this man to the right of me near the bus stop. I didn’t take much notice of him. He hailed a taxi which stopped right by me on the zebra crossing”. The man was Graham Osborn, he was a stranger to her, but then most of her customers were. “I don’t know whether he was worse for drink”, Bobby said, “or he was going to do something wrong. He was behaving very strangely. His eyes were glazed and a staring look in his eyes caused me to be very frightened. When I declined to go with him, he got aggressive. I was frightened for my life…”. By then, Martin McEvoy the passerby who had admitted he was “within touching distance”, saw Bobby & Graham arguing, and yet – like too many people who didn’t want to get involved – he did nothing. Bobby was terrified as Graham attacked her: “he pushed me into the back seat of the taxi. I tried to get out and he threw me back in”, her mind racing with fear she was about to be raped. And although, the cab driver sat barely inches away, “I screamed… but he didn’t even attempt to help”. Having got out, although she was crying desperately, “the taxi just drove away”. That driver was never identified. And yet, Bobby’s terror was far from over. With the taxi gone, she was alone on an almost empty street with a well-built former-Guardsman who wanted to do her harm, “he had me against the railings”. And although, just yards away, Andrew Fairlie the porter at the Atheneum had come out at the sound of the commotion, he also did nothing. What was on Graham’s mind will never be known, but based on his actions, he was desperate to do unspeakable things to Bobby, a lone woman who three men had ignored as she screamed in terror. It was then, as she initially stated that “two boys” came to her aid. Understandably fearful, she claimed she only knew one of them by nickname - “I had tears in my eyes as I went up to Chick” - and the other she had collapsed before she could identify him to the Police. But later, she would admit the truth. “I bumped into Chick and Billy. I said ‘Chick, I’ve been attacked in a taxi, please help me. I think he’s coming for me again”, as Graham stalked toward her. “Chick said ‘you’ll be alright now’”. And as the two men confronted her cowardly assailant; words were said, voices were raised and chests shoved, as Chick shouted, “what’s your game, mate?’, and Graham arrogantly spat “what’s the fucks it to you?” Bobby’s recollection of the fight was fuzzy and muddled, stating “Chick grabbed the man by the lapels and nutted him a couple of times with his head”, breaking his nose and cracking the bridge of his eyes, which the pathologist had said was caused (not by a fist) but “a weapon, probably a knuckle duster”. And although, Bobby would state “Billy hit the man in the stomach with his hand and then ran. I never saw a knife”, with Martin admitting “I saw a knife and it going into his stomach. It just went in and out fast through the man’s shirt. I was just walking by at the time. I was within touching distance”. Having confirmed that he knew Chick, he’d state “he was one of the two men. I couldn’t identify the other”. And there lied the problem, as for a short while, a code of silence had protected the killers of Graham Osborn. But as the men who had defended Bobby from her possible rapist, that same code of silence and ‘fear of getting involved’ would risk two men being convicted of murder; one who was guilty… … and the other, who was not. (Out) Having been committed for trial at Bow Street Magistrates Court on the 4th April, barely a week later, as Chick was led away in a police car, although Detective Manning suggested to Chick “keep your head down son, there’s photographers outside”, he bragged “I couldn’t care fucking less. My solicitor knows all about it. I admit to nutting the guy and I’ll do 18 months for GBH. But it was Billy who knifed him”. But with both men blaming each other in court, neither of the witnesses able to confirm who held the knife, and the knife itself having never been found, although there was irrefutable evidence (such as the blood on their clothes and several key witnesses) that a fight had occurred between Chick, Billy and Graham that night on that corner of Piccadilly, the jury had no option but to find them both guilty. With the trial held at The Old Bailey on the 26th of May 1959, on the 20th of June, both William Henry Heathcote known as ‘Billy’ and William James Joyce nicknamed ‘Chick’ were given life sentences for Graham Osborn’s murder… with no charges of assault posthumously brought against the dead man. Their convictions brought about a resolution to the case and having served their time, they were later released. But the evidence left more questions than answers; one being ‘why were the witnesses so fearful of Chick and Billy’, the other being ‘why did Graham attack Bobby’, and last ‘why did they kill Graham, were they merely rescuing a woman, or - if her pimps - were they protecting their product?’ It’s a question which will never be answered, as with no-one coming to either victim’s aid, nor ‘wanting to get involved’ (a skill we’ve mastered for centuries), the only two who know the truth are Chick & Billy. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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