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.
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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:
On Friday 27th of March 1959 at 2:50am, Graham Osborn man was found slumped against the railings at 117 Piccadilly. Later dying of his wounds, no-one knew why he was there, few knew that had happened and no-one knew who had attacked him or why. And although the Police would bring his killers to trial, this little-known case would only lead to more questions than it answered.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a teal coloured exclamation mark (!) near the words 'The Green Park'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on the corner of Down Street in Piccadilly, SW1; two streets east of the stabbing by the Angel Delight killer, one street north of the pink-suited bully, one street south of the last drink for Ken ‘Snakehips’ Johnson, and a short walk from the burned mute - coming soon to Murder Mile. A few yards from this corner stands The Athenaeum, a four-star Mayfair hotel, where every guest is greeted by a dapperly dressed doorman; whether they’re a tourist exhausted having been fleeced to within an inch of their wallet by the most expensive city in Europe, or a hideously ugly businessmen who has chaperoned an inexplicably attractive girl (possibly his granddaughter) whose name he can’t recall, to test the springs on his bed for a period of approximately 58 minutes, but not a second more. Coincidentally, the corner of Down Street and Piccadilly is a place where prostitutes often frequent. On Friday 27th of March 1959 at 2:50am, an unidentified man was found slumped against the railings a few doors down. Later dying of his wounds, no-one knew his name, no-one knew why he was there, few knew what had happened and no-one knew who had attacked him or why. And although the Police would bring his killers to trial, this little-known case would only lead to unanswered questions. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 229: Dumped. When people talk about the good old days, they claim, “we all knew each other”, “there was no crime”, “you could leave your door open” and “we looked out for one another” - which we all know is utter crap. Almost every murder we’ve covered disproves this theory, and this case is no different, as with no-one coming to the victim’s aid, ‘not wanting to get involved’ is a skill we’ve mastered for centuries. Friday 27th of March 1959 was the start of a bank holiday weekend, therefore (as is typical in Britain, even on a God-fuelled day like Good Friday) there had been much merriment and quaffing of booze in the city, as the people got a lot more pissed than usual, especially as for many it was their payday. Being halfway between Piccadilly Circus and Hyde Park, although dark, being dotted with a dull yellow haze of streetlights and the murmur from a smattering of inebriates staggering home from pubs or clubs, the southerly corner of Down Street in Mayfair was as quiet and silent as Green Park opposite. At roughly 2:50am, Ralph Platt, a taxi-driver was circling the West End looking for fares. Passing Down Street, slumped against the cast-iron railings of T Browne at 117 Piccadilly, just shy of the Athenaeum, he saw the all-too-familiar sight of – what looked like – a drunk; his head flopped to one side, his suit all dishevelled, a dark stain down his once white shirt and his legs having buckled underneath him. Like an unwanted ragdoll cast outside for the binmen to collect, several people hadn’t thought to stop or were willing to wake him, so they walked on by – with one said to be “within touching distance”. Only Ralph was concerned, as something didn’t look right. “Mate, are you okay?” With the man’s face as pale as marble and his eyes as sunken as caves, as he slurred his words, Ralph saw that the stain on his chest wasn’t vomit, just as the liquid which seeped down his trouser legs wasn’t urine, but blood, as from a deep steaming wound to his stomach, his intestines poked through. At 2:54am, Ralph got on his radio and called his control room: “Zebra 42 to Dispatch”, “Dispatch here”, “Zebra 42 emergency, injured man at the junction of Down Street and Piccadilly, ambulance required, erm, yeah, better make it quick, he’s been stabbed and he’s losing a lot of blood”. “Roger Zebra 42”. Receiving the call on his radio at 2:55am, PC Coster of West End Central police station arrived at the scene within minutes, quickly followed by an ambulance who – identifying his urgent need for blood - sped this barely conscious man to St George’s Hospital on Hyde Park Corner, just three streets away. Taken to casualty, Dr Millar would state “he was severely shocked and incapable of answering any questions… his abdominal wound was obscured by six feet of small intestine and bowel protruding… and stabbed with a knife to a depth of four inches deep, the blade had penetrated the spine”. Being operated upon and given several blood transfusions, the man was taken to recovery, “but with the knife’s blade having pierced the left lobe of the liver”, at 1:52pm that day, he died of his injuries. With his cause of death being ‘blood loss’, had anyone who had seen him attacked or even those who had walked by as he lay bleeding stopped to see if he was okay, it was likely he may have lived… …but they hadn’t. With his autopsy held at Westminster Public Mortuary, Professor Keith Simpson identified that the blade had “almost completely severed one of the main arteries arising from the aorta at the back of the abdomen”, and although the man was described as “tall and powerfully built”, there were no signs that he had fought back. And with two splits to his eyebrow, a break to his nose and two cuts to his upper lip, it was possible he was punched (not with a fist) but “a weapon, probably a knuckle duster”. Alcohol was detected on his breath, but with a blood test unable to confirm how much he had drunk, it didn’t answer why a man with “a superior physique” hadn’t been able to defend against an attack? His murder made no sense at all. With his wallet, his keys and his watch in his pocket, he hadn’t been robbed. With no-one reporting an assault, his attack was quick, probably random and possibly unseen. And with no-one able to confirm where he had been, why he was there, who had attacked him or why, all they knew about this ordinary man - who was possibly drunk and maybe mistaken by a nasty gang of thugs who had pounced on him when he was at his most vulnerable - was a few innocent details: The dead man was Graham John Osborn, a 26-year-old former Guardsman, who being dressed in his traditional bearskin and red tunic had once stood guard outside of Buckingham and St James’ Palaces. But invalided out of the service, until the day he died, he earned an honest wage as a stockman, he was unmarried, he had no children, no criminal record, and he lived with his mother Gladys in Southall. His death made no sense. It seemed accidental and unprovoked… …and yet a code of silence was protecting his killers. The next day, The Daily Telegraph’s headline was ‘Stabbed Man Lay Dying in Piccadilly’ and underneath in bold capital letters the words MURDER HUNT. With the most serious crime having been committed, those who were protecting Graham’s cowardly killers weren’t talking, so the police were appealing to the innocent few who thought they had simply seen a drunk man slumped on the pavement. It read: “for thirty minutes yesterday morning, Graham John Osborn, 26, lay bleeding to death on the pavement in Piccadilly, with people passing by him before police and an ambulance were called. Last night, Police inquiries became a murder hunt”, meaning this was no longer an assault, this was serious. Having ignited a pang of guilt, it continued “Detective Superintendent Manning took charge and today detectives were visiting shelters and coffee stalls used by taxi-drivers to attempt to trace witnesses”. And it worked, as having ignited a sympathy for the dead man and assuring any possible witnesses that there was something they could do, a flood of taxi-drivers came forward, as well as passersby. The article continued: “Scotland Yard appeal for any person who was in the vicinity of Down Street and Piccadilly between 2:20am and 3am yesterday to tell the police immediately… especially those who gathered around Osborn, who was bleeding heavily from a deep stab wound to the stomach”. Having read that and felt ashamed, who wouldn’t call? And so, as those who weren’t held by the code of silence spoke, the mystery over who had murdered Graham Osborn slowly began to unravel. Martin McEvoy, a man of no job nor fixed abode who was walking towards Hyde Park Corner from Green Park Station would state “I saw a young redhaired girl and that man arguing with each other”. The man he positively identified as Graham Osborn, and given the detailed description of the girl he had given and the fact that the corner of Down Street - just to the side of the Athenaeum Hotel - was a popular hangout for prostitutes, officers at West End Central police station had one woman in mind. With a second witness, Andrew Fairlie, the night porter at the Athenaeum corroborating that sighting and with several sex-workers confirming her whereabouts that night, Police questioned 24-year-old Daphne Gillian Cantley, a flamed haired prostitute from Earls Court who was known locally as ‘Bobby’. Clearly terrified, at first, she denied it was her, or that she was even there. But with the Police agreeing to keep her details out of the papers for fear of reprisals, and her guarded at an undisclosed address by a flank of officers, Bobby gave a statement. And although her recall of her encounter with Graham was incredibly detailed, unsurprisingly, her memory of his attackers was patchy and hazy, at best… …but she did give a name. “I only knew one of the men”, she said, describing him as “25 to 30, medium height, stockily built”, but unable to recognise the other: “I had tears in my eyes as I went up to him because I had been crying and was shaking a great deal, but as far as I know, the guardsman and Chick were strangers”. All they had was a vague description and a nickname – Chick. But who was Chick? By the next day, as the name ‘Chick’ echoed across the newspapers as well as every television set, the city buzzed as people started asking ‘who’s Chick’ and ‘where is he hiding’? So worried were local hoodlums of being wrongly accused of murder, that many handed themselves in with satisfactory alibis, and with the description specific enough, even the killers were looking over their shoulders. At an insalubrious hangout called the Cockney Café at Back Church Lane in Stepney, seeing the name ‘Chick’ plastered over the TV news, a labourer called Terry Kenny turned to his pal, a 27-year-old street trader called ‘Chick’ who confided “I’m in bit of bother cos of that bloke in the ‘dilly who got stabbed”. Chick was a wanted man… …and having confessed, “oh Terry, I swear on my baby’s life, it wasn’t me’, although an accomplice, it wasn’t Chick who had murdered Graham Osborn, but a friend who he had unwisely chosen to protect. Born in Poplar, East London on 1st of March 1932, nicknamed ‘Chick’, his real name was William James Joyce. Named after the Irish author, as a young criminal for whom the borstal system had taught him nothing but theft, Chick wouldn’t gain any notoriety as his criminal acts were petty and pointless. In 1950, aged 18, he was fined 40 shillings for dodging the tax on imported cigarettes. In 1952, he was charged with GBH, car theft, housebreaking and larceny, as well as illicit gambling in 1956 and 1957. Of the eight years since he had turned 18, as he had spent four months in prison and four years bound over or on a conditional discharge, many might say, he was a Jack of all trades and a master of none. He was a minor criminal with a violent streak, but he hadn’t committed a murder. The guilty party was his friend, 26-year-old William Henry Heathcote, known as ‘Billy’. Described as cocky and arrogant, like Chick, in the eight years since he had turned 18, Billy had spent three years in borstal and just over three years in prison, for a baffling array of thefts which suggested if it wasn’t nailed down he would nab it, including; groceries, two shoes, a pair of gloves, four shirts, a camera, typewriter, a ophthalmoscope and a pair of bathing trunks, as well as being in possession of cannabis and living off the earnings of prostitution, with the next crime added to his rap-sheet being murder. A fruitless shield of criminal fear hadn’t help to protect them both from a murder investigation. And even though it was only one of them who had plunged the knife into Graham Osborn’s guts… …together, their cockiness would convict both. In the minutes after the murder, although a code of silence would protect them, they weren’t exactly silent about their crime. In a busy billiard hall on Great Windmill Street, Bobby the flame-haired sex-worker was heard to utter “thanks Chick, I won’t forget that” to the two out-of-breath men. She later told Margaret Welstead, another prostitute and her husband John what had happened, and seeing three Police cars speed towards the crime-scene, Chick stated “I’ve been in a little bit of trouble”. While still wearing his bloodstained clothes, Billy admitted to the server at the Bruno Café in Stepney, “the Police are looking for us, there’s been a right old rumpus”, as about him lay the latest news article about the murder, and then they both admitted to their girlfriends “I didn’t do it, it was Chick/Billy”. It wasn’t hard to track them down. Searching both flats, Police found the clothes they wore that night, including Billy’s jacket and shirt which had spots of Group A blood on the left sleeve, and several spots on the inside of Chick’s jacket, all an identical blood group to Graham, but not to Chick or Billy. Yanked out of bed, when the detective identified himself, Chick grinned “the papers say you’re looking for me” and as Billy was led away, he bragged “it’s nothing, I’ll be home tonight”. But with no knife found, what the Police needed was a witness and a confession, which was easier said than done. On Sunday 30th of March, both men were questioned. Cocky to the last, Billy laughed as the detective’s questions, and when asked “where were you at half past two on Good Friday?”, whilst lying down, he spat “fuck off cop, you’re wasting your time. I’m as safe as the fucking bank”, as all innocent men say. Having identified Chick as one of the men, to prove Billy’s guilt, they put him in an ID parade at West Central police station. As Martin McEvoy was yet to come forward, the first witness was Andrew Fairlie the night porter at the Atheneum Hotel, who (in fairness) hadn’t seen much so he didn’t pick him out. The second was Bobby, the redheaded prostitute. Released under guard from a police safe house, as she stood in the station’s courtyard before a line of eight men of similar appearance, she visibly shook. Hesitantly walking up the line from left to right, with Billy being the last man, as she crept nearer, with her voice trembling “no, that’s not him” to each man before her, seeing the scowl on his face, before she could speak, “she staggered back and collapsed into the arms of the inspector, who carried out”. In the line-up, no-one identified Billy. On Tuesday 1st April, although a lack of conclusive evidence meant a conviction was on shaky ground, unable to prove who had stabbed Graham Osborn, both Billy and Chick were charged with the murder. Terrified that he was about to lose his life for a crime he hadn’t commit, with a new witness giving a statement, when Billy was questioned again, he spat “I see, so Chick has opened his mouth. I’m not afraid of him. He’s well known as a grass. If he puts it on me, I shall put it on him”. And with that, both men blamed the other, the code of silence fell, and they told the Police a story that no-one expected. Friday 27th of March 1959 was the start the Bank Holiday. Being British, a smattering headed to church and prayed, most overate and watched the box, while the rest of the country got royally smashed. For Bobby, it was business as usual, as she hung about on the corner of Down Street, hoping to pick-up a punter after the post-pub surge of horny gits had all headed home to their unwitting wives. She’d state “I arrived down there to start business… I noticed this man to the right of me near the bus stop. I didn’t take much notice of him. He hailed a taxi which stopped right by me on the zebra crossing”. The man was Graham Osborn, he was a stranger to her, but then most of her customers were. “I don’t know whether he was worse for drink”, Bobby said, “or he was going to do something wrong. He was behaving very strangely. His eyes were glazed and a staring look in his eyes caused me to be very frightened. When I declined to go with him, he got aggressive. I was frightened for my life…”. By then, Martin McEvoy the passerby who had admitted he was “within touching distance”, saw Bobby & Graham arguing, and yet – like too many people who didn’t want to get involved – he did nothing. Bobby was terrified as Graham attacked her: “he pushed me into the back seat of the taxi. I tried to get out and he threw me back in”, her mind racing with fear she was about to be raped. And although, the cab driver sat barely inches away, “I screamed… but he didn’t even attempt to help”. Having got out, although she was crying desperately, “the taxi just drove away”. That driver was never identified. And yet, Bobby’s terror was far from over. With the taxi gone, she was alone on an almost empty street with a well-built former-Guardsman who wanted to do her harm, “he had me against the railings”. And although, just yards away, Andrew Fairlie the porter at the Atheneum had come out at the sound of the commotion, he also did nothing. What was on Graham’s mind will never be known, but based on his actions, he was desperate to do unspeakable things to Bobby, a lone woman who three men had ignored as she screamed in terror. It was then, as she initially stated that “two boys” came to her aid. Understandably fearful, she claimed she only knew one of them by nickname - “I had tears in my eyes as I went up to Chick” - and the other she had collapsed before she could identify him to the Police. But later, she would admit the truth. “I bumped into Chick and Billy. I said ‘Chick, I’ve been attacked in a taxi, please help me. I think he’s coming for me again”, as Graham stalked toward her. “Chick said ‘you’ll be alright now’”. And as the two men confronted her cowardly assailant; words were said, voices were raised and chests shoved, as Chick shouted, “what’s your game, mate?’, and Graham arrogantly spat “what’s the fucks it to you?” Bobby’s recollection of the fight was fuzzy and muddled, stating “Chick grabbed the man by the lapels and nutted him a couple of times with his head”, breaking his nose and cracking the bridge of his eyes, which the pathologist had said was caused (not by a fist) but “a weapon, probably a knuckle duster”. And although, Bobby would state “Billy hit the man in the stomach with his hand and then ran. I never saw a knife”, with Martin admitting “I saw a knife and it going into his stomach. It just went in and out fast through the man’s shirt. I was just walking by at the time. I was within touching distance”. Having confirmed that he knew Chick, he’d state “he was one of the two men. I couldn’t identify the other”. And there lied the problem, as for a short while, a code of silence had protected the killers of Graham Osborn. But as the men who had defended Bobby from her possible rapist, that same code of silence and ‘fear of getting involved’ would risk two men being convicted of murder; one who was guilty… … and the other, who was not. (Out) Having been committed for trial at Bow Street Magistrates Court on the 4th April, barely a week later, as Chick was led away in a police car, although Detective Manning suggested to Chick “keep your head down son, there’s photographers outside”, he bragged “I couldn’t care fucking less. My solicitor knows all about it. I admit to nutting the guy and I’ll do 18 months for GBH. But it was Billy who knifed him”. But with both men blaming each other in court, neither of the witnesses able to confirm who held the knife, and the knife itself having never been found, although there was irrefutable evidence (such as the blood on their clothes and several key witnesses) that a fight had occurred between Chick, Billy and Graham that night on that corner of Piccadilly, the jury had no option but to find them both guilty. With the trial held at The Old Bailey on the 26th of May 1959, on the 20th of June, both William Henry Heathcote known as ‘Billy’ and William James Joyce nicknamed ‘Chick’ were given life sentences for Graham Osborn’s murder… with no charges of assault posthumously brought against the dead man. Their convictions brought about a resolution to the case and having served their time, they were later released. But the evidence left more questions than answers; one being ‘why were the witnesses so fearful of Chick and Billy’, the other being ‘why did Graham attack Bobby’, and last ‘why did they kill Graham, were they merely rescuing a woman, or - if her pimps - were they protecting their product?’ It’s a question which will never be answered, as with no-one coming to either victim’s aid, nor ‘wanting to get involved’ (a skill we’ve mastered for centuries), the only two who know the truth are Chick & Billy. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-EIGHT:
In the early hours of Sunday 3rd of February 1856, William Bousfield, a part-time tobacconist and wannabe actor mercilessly murdered his wife and three children as they slept. But what could have driven this quiet little dreamer to slaughter his family?
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on D’Arblay Street in Soho, W1; one road north of the second killing by the Blackout Ripper, one street west of the porn robbery by the randy Canadian sailor, a few doors from the racist attack on Brian Robinson, and the same street as the gentle garroter - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 4 D’Arblay Street on the ground-floor of a four-storey Georgian terrace currently stands Crème, a cookie shop. Only these are not those nasty British biscuits-like splats which are as flat as roadkill, as hard as tarmac and blessed with one flavour – sickly sweet. These are big fat gooey cookies, thick like muffins and soft like pillows, which melt-in-the-mouth and make you wish that diets didn’t exist. Yum. Being popular, you’ll often see long lines of eager-eyes keen to peep into through this curved window to drool over the gorgeous treats created within. And yet, it’s hard to stomach the fact that such an abhorrent brutal crime could have been committed where such sumptuous cookies are lovingly baked. Back in 1856, this was a prosperous tobacconist shop ran by mother-of-three, Sarah Bousfield. She worked long hours to support her three children, and many said, also her husband William, a pointless little man who dreamed of fame rather than fulfilling his responsibility as a father and as a husband. But what could have driven this quiet little dreamer to slaughter his entire family? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 228: William Bousfield and the Price of Fame. Everyone has a plan of what they wish their life to be, some achieve it, others don’t; some seek fame and fortune, others want routine and stability; and whereas some will fight to the death to ensure the safety of their loved ones, others will do the unthinkable when their dream drifts out of reach. Sarah was born in Westminster in 1827, the only child of John & Ann Jones. From her father, being a carpenter from South Wales who ran a successful joinery and purchased several properties earning an income as the landlord, he instilled in her a solid work ethic. From her mother, a native of Chelsea, she inherited a sense of love and – described as pleasant, friendly and affectionate, as well as an industrious girl – she had a devotion to her family which would never be split apart, except by tragedy. Sarah had brains and business-sense in an era when a woman’s place was solely as a mother, a wife, or (if she was a widow or a spinster) to earn a meagre pittance doing menial work. But as the perfect harmony of both parents, alone she could have done well. But with a big part of her life’s dream to marry and have children, that part of her dream required a man, whose name was William Bousfield. How and where they met is unknown. But having impressed both Sarah and her parents, he must have played the part of a loyal lover and a future breadwinner well, as they all liked him and loved him. Whether it was all an act or a role he was willing to play for a time, again is unknown. But for the first few years of their marriage, William would perform the part of a husband and father as best he could. As a native of Marylebone, William’s upbringing is mostly unrecorded as although raised with two sisters, he didn’t seem to be the epitome of loyal loving son, but a boy who exasperated his parents. Described as “being of a repulsive aspect”, he seemed taller than his 5-foot 8-inch frame suggested as his body was as thin as a witch’s broom and his pale face had the hollowed-out features of a ghost. And as a quiet and sullen man who was often lost in his thoughts, his conversations were punctuated by a blowing wind or the puff of his pipe, rather than words which unravelled the workings of his mind. Since his school years, his baffled parents had attempted to get this idle boy into a profession, first as an errand boy for a tradesman called Mortimer on The Strand (although he liked to lie that he was in fact a carpenter, when he wasn’t), and later as an office boy at a solicitor’s rising to the role of a clerk. But raised in the shadow of the blossoming West End theatres, as William yawned over spreadsheets, it wasn’t a desk-job he yearned for, but to tread the boards. As far back as he could recall, William had wanted to be an actor, to take his curtain call and to savour the sound as an adoring crowd applauds. Only his dream was not to be. Dubbed by his furious father as a “silly little hobby”, acting was not seen an honest career for a decent man by civilised society, but on the same level as whoring oneself on the street for a few coins. So, with William’s hopes of being a stage prancer or (God forbid) a singer at his parent’s discretion, fearing that their neighbours would ask ‘what’s wrong with the boy’, his dreams were royally stamped out. William’s life would be thus; to be born, to marry, to have children, and to die… …but with that little seed of a dream still alive, big problems had begun. In the winter of 1849, William Bousfield married Sarah Jones, becoming Mr & Mrs Bousfield. With one of Sarah’s dreams fulfilled and their first child conceived on their wedding night, this was the wake-up call which should have jolted William from his daze and made him the man his family would deserve. But having married without his father’s permission, with his parents disowned as an argument ensued, there was no-one left to force him to endure a dull job and to hold back his dreams… or so he thought. On the 16th of December 1849, Anne Eleanor Bousfield was born; as a healthy girl, unlike many others she was raised in a loving family home by a doting mother and adored by her grandparents John & Anne. But from her own father William? Sometimes he held and fed her, but little more than that. A neighbour stated: “he was fond of his children, but not excessively so”. And with the same said of his love of his wife, in the places where William failed as a husband, Sarah’s father had to step in. Described by another neighbour as “a good man, who always showed his daughter the most marked kindness and supplied her with everything they required”, Sarah and her children would never suffer any hunger or poverty, even though John would state “William has not earned a day’s wage in years”. William’s work ethic was non-existent, as although he had briefly trained as a French polisher, like many of life’s dreamers, he had his business-cards made up, but had no intention of doing the job. Unable to pay the rent or even a few basic bills, John, Sarah’s father purchased the family a ground-floor flat at 4 D’Arblay Street in Soho, and wisely moved himself and his wife into the flat above. As a small practical lodging, it had two purposes. In the back parlour, next to a cast-iron fire for cooking and heating, and a warm horsehair bed where William, Sarah and Anne would sleep, they had a place to live, but also, out front, a thriving business. Having purchased a tobacconist which sold tobacco, pipes and papers as expected, but also the essentials like logs and kindling – with their brood soon to be followed by Eliza in January 1852, and John in July 1855 - it was hoped that given a shop of his own, William could provide his family with an income and become a good father and a loving husband. It was hoped… …but hope is a cruel word. Having neglected his business as much as his role as a breadwinner, being “a worthless idle fellow” as his own wife would call him, Sarah & William had frequent fights, and with William unable to provide much (if anything) for this family, although she was a busy mother to three children all under the age of six and with one still suckling at her breast, Sarah ran the tobacconists. From dawn till dusk, she bathed the kids, she made the meals, she sewed their clothes, and having opened the shop – often with her little one’s at her feet when her mother couldn’t babysit - she served the customers, she purchased the goods, she made the money, and she got the babies ready for bed. Her days were long and exhausting, and with their marriage decaying as William’s nights were spent in a fruitless search for the wrong kind of work, Sarah & William had begun to sleep in separate beds. In a last attempt to get William into a job, around the same time, Sarah’s father had purchased him a set of workman’s tools, including a chisel. Made of iron with a wooden handle and an unblemished cutting edge sharp enough to sever the hardest grain, it was a chisel William would only use once… …to end the life of his wife. At this point, it would be expected that William’s descent into multiple murder would be preceded by a spiral of drink, depression and rage. Only, with no history of insanity, William was not a violent drunk or a drug addict, but a sullen man who was fixated on one thing - his dream of becoming an actor. During the first part of the winter of 1855 – a winter so cold it was dubbed ‘the great frost’ - William was working on a paltry wage of five shillings-a-week at The Princesses’ Theatre at 150 Oxford Street. That year, he performed in a pantomime, only – as neither a gifted actor nor (being quite taciturn) too quiet to project his voice - his name was not on the poster. Billed as ‘a young man’, William was little more than a background artiste, whose silent performance was there to add colour to each scene. He had no lines except for what he mimed, and he had no purpose except as a dash of window dressing. By January, with the newly rebuilt Royal Opera House in Covent Garden opening, William got work as a silent set-filler for ‘Professor Anderson’ the infamous magician billed as ‘the Wizard of the North’. As a polite young man, he didn’t chat with his fellow thespians. As a boy, he didn’t fraternise with any of the dancers. And as an actor, he wasn’t the best; as with his performance described as “lacking energy”, he found it difficult to even smoke authentically on set, even though he smoked at home. With a show every evening, plus a matinee every Wednesday and Saturday, although busy but earning a pittance, the only time he saw his wife and children was in bed, or in the tobacconist’s shop, where – as a charming young woman, who was bright, chatty and knew that the best way to keep her mostly male customers coming back was to engage them in a bit of banter - he didn’t like the role she played. Taught by her father who was a shrewd businessman, Sarah knew how to be polite and professional, she knew how to be friendly without being too familiar, and she knew how to be a little flirtatious as a striking young woman, but as a loyal mother dedicated to her three children, that’s all it ever was. It was only through his simmering jealousy that William was ever seen to be working in the shop, to act as a barrier between the wife he claimed to love and the customers he had learned to loathe. And yet, his suspicion was all in his mind, as Mrs Bennett, the second-floor lodger would state “several times he told me she was too free with her customers, he did not like the young fellows coming into the shop on that count”, when in truth “it was they who would rather be served by her, than by him”. With a mix of his laziness and her (perceived) infidelity, over the last few months of their marriage, they argued a lot, but it never got physical, and being unhappy together, Mr & Mrs Bousfield went through the motions - a successful tobacconist and a failed actor living apart in the same house. And yet, just a few weeks into the show’s theatrical run… …William brought the curtain down upon all of their lives. Saturday 2nd of February 1856 was an unremarkable day, as the only bitterness in the air was the biting wind as the great frost lingered on, and with snow under foot, all manner of feet precariously walked. At breakfast, they argued as they often did, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. And being Saturday, between his matinee performance and the evening show, William made his moody presence known in the shop, as a slew of young tradesmen came in to buy tobacco and to attempt to flirt with his wife. At 7:30pm, a witness heard them quarrelling over Sarah being ‘improper’, “I had not the slightest idea it was anything more serious than usual”, he said, and having made up, they went about their jobs. If those few bickering words had been the spark which ignited his rage and left four innocents dead, then his actions that followed and his performance at the theatre would have been off, only it wasn’t. He played his role, he fetched some milk, and through the snow he walked home to 4 D’Arblay Street. At 10:30pm, John saw William in the back parlour. With Sarah having gone out to get butter, 6-year-old Anne asleep in their bed and 4-year-old Eliza snuggled-up beside her, as William bounced their restless 8-month-old son John on his knee, he was said to be “calm and cheerful”. Thirty minutes later, Sarah returned, she was laughing and chatting, and having shut up the shop, they both went to bed. That night would be the first night that they had all shared a bed together in months, and according to the other lodgers in the house, “they bickered a little, but there was nothing odd in his manner”. With not a sound heard, no-one in that house (not the lodgers nor her parents) had any idea about the horrors which had occurred, and with six hours unaccounted for, the truth may never be known. (Night sounds, church bell, wind… …then footsteps in snow). As the dawn chorus broke and the church bell struck seven, with an odd calmness, William walked the ten-minute walk from his home to Bow Street police station. Described as sober yet distressed, when PC Fudge asked why he was here, William simply said “to give myself up. I have murdered my wife”. Pleading for the PC to kill him and to ease his pain, although an inch-long wound had been slit across his neck and a second was still flowing freely from a slash to his left wrist, not all of the blood was his. Across his aghast face, down his gulping throat, over his once white shirt and with a thick red goo dried into crusts on his shivering hands, he wasn’t delusional when he gave them his address, just distraught. Accompanied by PC Fudge, as the carriage carrying Inspector Dodd drove into D’Arblay Street, he was shocked to see this road so quiet, as still silently sleeping, a crowd hadn’t been roused by the murder. With the door locked, Inspector Dodd knocked, waking what he thought was a first-floor lodger. “Who are you? What is this racket about?”, as unaware that the Welshman was the victim’s father, Inspector Dodd bluntly stated “Police! A murder had been committed in the back parlour”, startling him awake. Unbolting the parlour door, along the shop’s stone floor lay spots of dried blood as a line of handprints daubed the walls with red smears. In his agony, John called out “Sarah?! Sarah?!”, but he got no reply. With the candles dead and the shutters drawn, the room was dark. With the fire out and a howling wind, it was deathly cold. And with no life heard, in the bed lay a silent lump under a woollen sheet. Touching his daughter’s pale and bloodied face, his fingers knew that she was dead, long dead, as not a breath rose from her body nor steam from the deep long wound which had ripped open her neck. James Hadaway, a surgeon from Berwick Street examined her in situ: “it had divided the skin and all of the soft parts down to the fourth and fifth vertebrae and splitting the carotid artery”. Inflicted using a razor, this initial wound had occurred as she slept, only her other wounds were more hateful. “It appeared there had been an intention to bleed the woman to death… with three cuts to the left elbow which had bifurcated the artery and two to the right, these were made to open the veins”, but with her heart found empty of blood, instead he stabbed her in the face, as if to deface her in death. For John, aside from the tragedy of losing his child was the irony that she had been murdered with the tool he had brought William to help him find work – as on the pillow, lay the chisel, drenched in blood. With the bedsheets disheveled and her blood spattered up the walls, what concerned the Inspector was why she had no defensive wounds upon her. In the minutes she had lived, she had fought for her life; only with her nails intact, no fingers broken and no slashes to her hands, why did she not fight back? It was only when he had moved her slowly stiffening body that he realised the reason why. As a good mother, a loving woman and her children’s sole protector, as William’s razor slit a four-inch-long wound across her throat and her bloodied airways gasped and gagged for an ounce of oxygen, her only thought was to protect her babies. And although she had shielded them as-best-she-could; Anne aged six, Eliza aged four and John who was only eight months old, all had their throats slit. With their bodies removed to the St James’ workhouse, back at Bow Street, William was arrested for the murder of his entire family. Confined to the Middlesex House of Detention, he gave no reason for his crimes, instead he repeatedly struck his head against the mantlepiece and cried “kill me, kill me”. With the inquest held at St James’ workhouse, so feverish were the locals to see justice, that the board room was full, the street was crammed with crowds, and the Police had officers guarding the house. Giving evidence, John could barely speak as his tears choked his voice, and with the jury having stood in stoney silence as in the freezing morgue the four bloodied bodies were splayed out before them, after a short deliberation, they returned a verdict of murder, and William was committed for trial. Paid for by a deluge of public donations, with Poland Street impassable, a series of black horse-drawn carriages lined up at the back of the workhouse morgue on Dufour’s Place. Weeping and furious, as the crowds jostled nearer, suddenly a hushed silence descended over the people, as through the door, four coffins emerged in ever decreasing sizes – with one so small, a single pallbearer held it in his arms. Sarah, Anne, Eliza and John were all buried in a single grave in West Brompton Cemetery. His trial at the Old Bailey was a mere formality, as declared sane, his guilt was evident. And described as “a most dreadful character”, although there was an absence of motive, he was sentenced to death. Throughout he was said to be “overwhelmed with grief”. Upon hearing his sentence, it is said that he had nearly fainted and had to be removed by a jailer. From Newgate prison, he callously wrote a letter to Sarah’s grieving father blaming her murder on her alleged adultery. And with his appeal denied, on Saturday 29th of March at 4pm, just one day before his execution, he attempted to take his own life. According to the turnkey, whilst sat in his bed staring intently at the fire, “he threw himself headfirst into the grate”; as the flames scorched his hair, the hot coals seared his skin, and - as the room stunk of burning flesh - his face became a mass of bubbling wounds which popped and spat like hot fat. But having been rescued within seconds, his fate wouldn’t be decided in this room, but at the gallows. Therefore it’s odd that, for William Bousfield whose deadly dream was of being an actor… …that he would fail to realise that his greatest performance was yet to come. On Sunday 30th of March 1856 at 6am, he rose from his prison bed, had his wounds bathed, and with his last request being “a little wine at breakfast”, the Sherrif, the Reverand and the Governor came to collect him. Only William, unless he was faking, was not well, as “held to a chair by two aides with one wiping a frothy liquid from his mouth, he appeared to be in a dying state, his limbs refusing to work”. Whether this was a symptom of his burns, a cunning ploy or just cowardliness, we shall never know. But although the doctor declared “his pulse was low, but his arteries were active”, with his face still red, blistered and swollen, although described as “an appalling sight”, his execution was imminent, At 8am, having to be carried to the scaffold by four men, with two at his arms and two at his legs, with a hemp noose around his scorched neck (which still bled from his tender burns); the Reverand read from the burial service, the prison bell rang its deathly toll, and the 5000 strong crowd fell silent. Only his death wouldn’t be a quick and kindly act of compassion, as with William Calcraft famed as an executioner who - like William – was a showman, seeing these executions as a form of entertainment rather than an act of punishment, as the crowd sat supping beer, he would wow them with his cruelty. So, with his hands and legs tied, as Calcraft removed the bolt, William Bousfield dropped… …only he didn’t fall a few feet as his neck snapped, but mere inches as his throat was strangled. Seeing his body twisting and flinching in pained agony as his bodyweight pulled on his neck, the crowd roared with glee as the man dangled, this being a joyous bit of entertainment as they ate with their picnics. And although it took most men several minutes to die, the show was far from over, as having somehow swung his feet up, as William secured himself precariously on the scaffold - the crowd cheered. Seeing his act of rebellion, Calcraft kicked his legs so his strangling could continue – and so the crowd booed. And so this went on, for several minutes, William swinging his legs up, and Calcraft kicking them off. Upon his fourth attempt at saving his skin and ten full minutes into his torture, as William exhaustedly stood there wobbling upon a slim slip of wood – with the crowd growing ever restless as his protracted agony descended from a bit of harmless fun to an act of wanton cruelty – keen to end it quick and to appease the turning masses, Calcraft threw himself at William’s legs, and with his 16-stone of weight, he hung off them. As for the next few minutes, William’s body was gripped in a convulsive twitch… …until suddenly, he went very still. Buried in an unmarked grave inside Newgate Prison, the last sound he possibly heard was the applause of the crowd, which marked the curtain call of William Bousfield. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SEVEN:
This is 19-25 Harrington Gardens in Kensington, SW7. In the early hours of Tuesday 9th of March 1954, two immature young boys called Ted & Ian chose to get rich quick, by breaking in, tying up the night porter, and robbing the hotel of its haul of cigarettes and cash. It should have been a simple robbery for two simple boys… …but being so inept, their inexperience led to a good man’s murder.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a rum and raisin exclamation mark (!) near the words 'West Brompton'. 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 Harrington Gardens in Kensington, SW7; two roads north of the unsolved killing of Countess Lubienska, just a few roads west of the murder of Detective Sergeant Raymond Purdy, and a short walk north of the union rep’ who blew the whistle to early - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 19 to 25 Harrington Gardens currently stands ‘The Other House’, a six-storey mid-Victorian terrace which (like it once was) is a residents’ club, where posh patrons enjoy the privilege of living in a hotel room for the year, without being blighted by their snot-nosed brats or nightly fights with their spouse. Imagine that, the bedsheets in your second home changed daily by a maid, a boy stocks your minibar with free Toblerone’s and you can even leave your skanky pants by the door for the valet to clean. Joy. Little has changed since 1954 when this was the Aban Court Hotel, a mid-level hotel for passing trades and long-term residents which catered for 1950s tastes; serving pies and puddings for dinner in the carvery, daily newspapers delivered to your door, and you could even buy cigarettes at the reception. For many, it was a place of safety in a hectic city. But in the early hours of Tuesday 9th of March 1954, two immature young boys called Ted & Ian chose to get rich quick; by breaking in, tying up the night porter, and robbing the hotel of its haul of cigarettes and the safe containing £700 (or £24,000 today). Only being so inept, their inexperience led to a good man’s murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 227: Silly Little Boys. This isn’t the story of a well-planned heist by hardened criminals hellbent on making a million, but two silly little boys from different backgrounds, who – being unable and unwilling to do even a decent day’s work for an honest wage - decided to take the easy-way-out and to steal it… no matter the risk. Kenneth Gilbert was born on 9th May 1932 in London, as the ‘illegitimate son of Hilda Gilbert’ according to the fragments which were recorded on his rather sparse birth certificate before he was abandoned. With no home, family or plan, Ted (as he liked to be called) drifted through life, unkempt and ruffled, with the few words he rarely spoke often grunted in a coarse and offhand manner. With no friends to chat to or hobbies to occupy his mind, he kept to himself and remained tight-lipped about everything. Assessed by a prison psychiatrist, Ted was described as “having a limited vocabulary and knowledge… he needs prompting in conversation… and his powers of judgement and reasoning are poor”. Raised in public institutions, aged 12, he was sent to borstal to be ’disciplined’. Imprisoned amidst grey concrete walls and thick iron bars, his education was to be barked at and beaten for disobedience (so it’s no surprise he was described as ‘a bully who resented authority’) and forced to work on a farm. As a troubled orphan who no-one wanted to deal with, he was bounced between approved schools in Rhyl, Liverpool, Nottingham, and having escaped from Salterford Senior, on 18th August of 1949, aged 17, he was committed to two more years of borstal training, where he was described as “difficult”. The system which should have been there to protect Ted had failed, and spawning an angry young man who was lost and hopeless, it was decided that what he needed was a stricter form of discipline. On 17th April 1952, released on licence from borstal (and therefore branding him a criminal), Ted was enlisted into the Royal Army Veterinary Corp at the Central Ordnance Depot at Chilwell in Nottingham, where again he was barked at by bullies, who he was forced to serve food to in the officer’s mess hall. Within three months, being described as ‘undisciplined’ and ‘mentally dull’, he was sent to the Army psychiatrist who recommended his discharge after 187 days service, unwisely stating “treatment after discharge is not necessary, but he may need assistance in settling into civilian life”… only he got none. On the 20th of October 1952, 20-year-old Ted was dumped in the bustling city of London; skilled only in farm work, he drifted between hostels and half-way-houses, he struggled to hold down menial jobs as a hotel porter, a trawlerman, a boiler stoker, and he had to see his probation officer once a week. On the 30th of April 1953, at the County of London Sessions, he was sentenced to two years’ probation for shop breaking and theft. On 13th of November 1953 in Grimsby, he was fined £3 for assault. And since he could remember, Ted had no purpose, and although silent, underneath lay a bubbling rage. Three months after his discharged, he met Ian Grant. Fifteen months later… …they were both charged with murder. As a spoilt child from a good family, Ian’s life was the mirror opposite of Ted’s, so it’s odd to see that both boys ended up in the same place; committing a petty crime for cash and taking a good man’s life. Ian Arthur Grant was born in Surrey on the 30th of December 1929, the only child of well-adjusted and middle-class parents who lived a nice life in a quaint village and gave him whatever he wanted when he wanted it. Only fine foods and limitless toys don’t always make for a good child, as being ‘spoiled rotten’, Ian was prone to temper tantrums and tears being a mummy’s boy who could do no wrong. Seen as a poor scholar, thanks to his parent’s financial security, he was sent to boarding school where - some say - a child gets the best education but denied any love it creates an intelligent but emotional husk of a human lacking in empathy, and that – being little more than a posh-boy’s borstal – it’s where many parents who can’t be bothered to raise their child, pay a series of strangers to do the dirty work. Unsurprisingly - like Ted – as he lacked any skills, order and focus, his downfall wasn’t his sullenness, far from it, as lacking the maturity to be silent for a single second, Ian was a chatterbox who would talk to anyone about anything just for the sake of filling the sound of nothing and making conversation. Leaving school, his expensive education was of little benefit, as failing to hold down a menial job as a factory machinist at the Marconi plant, this was followed by several short periods as a hotel porter. In May 1948, aged 19, with military conscription still enforced – like Ted – he was enlisted against his will into the Army, but described as “unstable”, “immature” and a “dull useless youth”, after seven months he was discharged, and he was dumped in London with no money, no skills and no purpose. What set both boys apart was that – although a product of a fractured family – as a respectable middle-class businessman, as Ian drifted between mindless jobs and filthy hostels, his father always stepped in to make his life easier and – hopefully – bring this petty selfish jabber-mouth back on the right path. When Ian struggled to cope with his mother’s death, his father sought the assistance of his probation officer. In April 1951, when Ian was arrested for car-theft, his father had the charge dropped having had Ian dealt with under the Mental Deficiency Act. Described by Dr Watterson as ‘not certifiable’ or ‘feeble minded’ but ‘dull and backward’, although they had tried to re-adjust him back into family life with his father and his stepmother, in September 1951 he left home and drifted towards Kensington. As young foolish men with no-one there to guide them, although two very different boys who were raised in very different ways, having both moved into a hostel at 90 Harwood Road in Fulham, Ian and Ted had found their kindred spirit. Later sharing a room and becoming the best of friends, they held down regular jobs as porters at the Ideal Home Exhibition, and earning an okay wage, they did well. But being restless and easily led, believing they had dreamed-up the perfect crime… …soon these best friends would be executed together. To say that the robbery was doomed to failure would have been an understatement. Ten days prior, with Ted short on cash as the exhibition was in-between events, he said to Ian “how about breaking into the Aban Court Hotel?”. As Ted had worked there as a boiler stoker for a full three months, he claimed he had seen where the head receptionist had hid 2500 cigarettes which they could easily sell, as well as the key to the safe containing £700, or £24,000 today, a year’s salary for both. Ted said “I had seen this girl put the money in a tin box and I thought she kept it in the reception’s drawer. I knew the run of the place and how to get in without breaking anything. I knew I could get over the railing and down into the basement through the stokehole without having to break any door”. Trusting Ted, Ian decided to go along with this half-witted heist for the sake of some ciggies and a paltry stash of cash, “as Ted knew how to get into the hotel without force and no-one would get hurt”. And over the following nights of what would be little more than a week, they chatted it over… a bit. Ted said, “I decided we’d do the job on Monday night, as the stock of coke would be low”, which was smart, as at night, every window and door was locked, and any smashed glass would raise the alarm. But with the basement boiler being coal-powered, having been the stoker, he knew that the coal hatch facing Harrington Gardens was always unlocked and that no-one would ever think to check it. Again, the timing was solid, as Ted said, “I decided the best time to break in was midnight to 1am, as I know that there would only be one porter on duty”, which there was. Aged 53, prone to drinking five pints of bitter before his shift and currently struggling with a chronic bout of bronchitis, George Smart was the night porter and until at least 7am the following morning, he would be by himself. Having got to know George’s timings during his night shift, Ted knew when and how to overpower him, where to tie him up, and having robbed the ciggies and cash, they’d be gone before anyone knew. “I told Ian that after we go to the dining room, we wait for the Hoover to start up”, as George always vacuum-cleaned the carpets at roughly 1am, and that this familiar sound makes for a good distraction. To lure him over, “from the back of the lift” where the switch was “we’d turn off the light, slam the door and call George over”, and with his back to the dining room door, “I’d grab him and lock him in the telephone box” near the reception. Tying his hands and feet, gagging his mouth and using a length of bandage to seal the door shut, “then we would go over the place and get what we could”. Job done. With the tools (a length of string and a crepe bandage) in their pockets, as well as the cunning disguise of a handkerchief to cover their faces and flat caps for their heads, the plan itself was not the problem. On paper, it was a simple robbery for a small reward in which no-one should get hurt… …only the problem was that these weren’t expert criminals, but silly little boys. Monday 8th March 1954 was a classic British day, with the weather a mix of chilly and drizzle. At 11pm, the boys left their hostel and strolled 30 minutes north-east, but with the street still a little busy as two policemen patrolled, “we walked around for half an hour before heading to the Aban Court hotel”. From the outside, the door was locked, the windows were shut, few lights were on, and there was no noise emanating except for the soft sounds of patron’s sleeping and the clunk of the basement boiler. Ian said, “we climbed over an iron gate at the side of the hotel in Harrington Gardens, then down some steps”, their faces covered by patterned cotton handkerchiefs like the highway bandits of yesteryear. Creaking open the wooden hatch to the stoke hole which was hidden under the footway, as predicted the coke level was low making it easy for the boys to clamber over, but owing to tonnes of black coal covered in a powdery but sometimes thick syrupy goo, they left prints across everything they touched. Creeping quietly through Boiler House #1, having snuck down the passageway, they sidled up the stairs to the ground floor and beside Room 10, they spied George the porter hoovering the dining room. Having had five pints of beer before work, he was muttering and hacking up his mucus filled cough. They were at the right side of the hotel to see the porter, but the wrong side of the ground floor to be near the phone-box. So with the hoover on, Ted sent Ian three doors south to the reception, with their plan to distract old George, tie him up, gag him, drag him to the phone-box, and make their escape. Only, this simple plan would be fatally flawed from the start. Ted would state “at the back of the lift, Ian would switch the light off, slam the door and call ‘George’”. It was that simple. Only the second he flicked the light switch he realised that the dining room hadn’t been plunged into darkness and Old George had carried on hoovering, so Ian returned to Ted, as the two whispered; “it’s not working”, “what’s not working?”, “the light”, what do you mean the light isn’t working, it’s a light, you flick the switch and it goes off”, “yeah, I know, but it didn’t”, “well did you flick the right switch?”, “what do you mean ‘did I flick the right switch?’ there was one bloody switch”. It should have been a foolproof plan, only these fools were proof that the plan was fucked. As a back-up, they could have waited, they could have left, or they could have crept about quietly with one lad as a lookout, which wouldn’t have been a terrible idea given that Old George was busy, sickly and a bit pissed. But being too keen to grab 2500 ciggies and maybe £700 quid, Ted had another plan. “Ian, go into the dining room, call out ‘George’ and get him to chase you”. That was it. Let the night porter see him, losing the element of surprise, possibly alert the sleeping staff and run like buggery. It was a bloody stupid idea, but – not being the best blessed with brains – it was the best idea they had. And what began as a silly little kid being chased around a half-empty hotel by a boiler-suited man… …although akin to the Keystone Cops, this seemingly comical caper would end with three lives ruined. Ian said, “I went in and called out ‘George, come here a minute’. He had his back to me. I don’t think he heard me, so I called out in a louder voice ‘George’. He saw me, the lights were on, and I panicked”. Repeatedly shouting ‘who are you’ at this disguised youth, as Old George struggled to keep-up as his rattling lungs wheezed after weeks battling bronchitis, Ian said “I ran down the corridor. George ran after me” and as he followed this would-be thief into the servery – a side-room where the food was prepared – Ian realised he was cornered, and as George grabbed him by the sleeves, he was trapped. Ian told the court of his fear, “he had his arm raised to strike me. It was coming down and I caught hold of it and turned his wrist. I gave him a light blow to the stomach with my hand, just to scare him”. But as he did, “Ted crept up behind him and he struck him some heavy blows to the face “, admitting “I turned him round and hit him twice on the jaw with my fist and he fell on the floor by the sink”. Dropping to the stone floor like a sack of spuds, as they tied his feet with the string, they realised they hadn’t enough to bind his wrists, so short on options, they used George’s tie. And with the scullery being nowhere near the phone-box where they would leave him, they decided to dump him there. Even at that point, they knew he wasn’t well, as one said, “he was groaning” and the other remarked “he was breathing heavy through his nose”, as the night porter lay motionless on the floor and a slowly forming pool of blood expanded around his stationary body, it bubbling as his nose breathed out. He was of no harm to anyone, but fearing for their capture and realising they hadn’t brought anything to gag him, they silenced him with several serviettes and an oven glove, held in place by a bandage. An autopsy confirmed that although George’s mucus-filled lungs had exacerbated his slow lingering death, it wasn’t the cause. Being punched, his jaw had fractured, and with it weaker than most owing to a buried tooth, with his nose and mouth covered by a gag, he had suffocated in his own blood. The autopsy also confirmed that “he was semi-conscious when the gag was applied, and he didn’t put up a struggle”, but with the porter still groaning, “Ted kicked him several times in the side of the head”. With the porter subdued (and creeping ever closer to death), being the epitome of incompetence, the two boys dashed to the reception desk to fill their pockets with the loot they felt they had earned. Unable to find the key to the reception, they had to get a chair to clamber over the six-foot partition, almost slipping and knocking over a lamp in the process. Unable to find the key to the cigarette drawer, they had to nick a screwdriver and jemmy the lock open, leaving fingerprints everywhere. And again, having seen A key, but not THE key to the hotel’s safe, having fled clutching all they could carry, Ian left behind his cap and having hailed a taxi to take them back home, Ted dropped half of their booty. Back at the hostel, on their bed, Ted & Ian laid out the riches from their robbery. Having promised a haul of 2500 cigarettes and a stash of cash worth £700 (a year’s salary for both), as these two silly little boys had tried and failed to play at being big-time gangsters, all they had got was 700 cigarettes (40 of which they had smoked), and from a petty cash tin, just £2 in assorted silver and copper coins. A fundamental question is ‘what price is a man’s life’? Of which, the answer should always be priceless. But in the case of George Smart, the night porter who was murdered for simply doing his job… …he died for as little as some ciggies and some cash, which today is worth just £320. Initially, the police were at a loss as to who had murdered George, as no-one had seen them enter or exit the hotel, and – having never robbed a hotel before – a manual search of the fingerprint database wouldn’t link to Ted and Ian. And yet, again, it was their incompetence which would collar them both. At 12pm, the next day, having gone into the work at the Ideal Home Exhibition, Ian said “Ted showed me the early edition of the Star. I saw the headlines and I realised that the night porter had died”. Panicked, desperate and knowing that neither of them had the slightest clue what to do, they lured into their confidence a colleague called Donald Chapman. With Don, they left the ticket to the stolen items they had hidden at the left luggage kiosk at Waterloo station, they told him of their plan to flee to Dublin, and with Ian being a chatterbox who - especially when he was nervous – was prone to fill in the awkward silences of a conversation with anything, Ian told Don everything about the robbery. And being a decent chap who was raised well, Don did the right thing, and notified the police. (End) Arrested the next morning, although they both denied any knowledge of the crime, being told that the other had blabbed, they both admitted to a minor part, but blamed the other for the bulk of it. During a quick investigation, the police found their gloves with coal dust on, their clothes with spots of George’s blood on, and – at their hostel – a man called Derek Quinnell, who Ted & Ian had discussed the crime with beforehand, asking him to be part of their caper, which – rather wisely – he declined. A psychiatric assessment of both boys described Ted as “of subnormal intelligence, he is immature and emotionally unstable, largely due to the circumstances of his birth and upbringing”, with Ian described as “immature, childish, selfish, spoiled and unable to control his emotions and desires”. Tried at the Old Bailey from the 10th to the 12th of May 1954, they both pleaded ‘not guilty’, with Ted stating, “we had no intention of causing injury, just to overcome him and place him in the phone box”, which he later admitted was a lie, as the bandage wasn’t long enough to secure the phone-box shut. Found guilty after just twenty minutes, although through their appeals they blamed one another, on Thursday 17th June 1954, Ted & Ian – two lost boys who had become soulmates – were executed at Pentonville Prison, and being hung side-by-side, they were the last double hanging in Britain. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-SIX:
On Saturday 22nd of June 1968, a petty thief tried to steal a small amount of cash from Taj Mahal at 21 Romilly Street in Soho. It wasn’t a daring heist, but a petulant act which would have resulted in a fine or a few weeks in prison. And yet, allegedly using ‘acceptable force’ to restrain him, three men would be charged with murder.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a lemon exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Soho'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Romilly Street in Soho, W1; a few doors north of the loo irradiated for life by Russia’s most incompetent spies, two doors east of Dennis Nilsen’s favourite pub, and within sight of the restaurant where the daily special included a dose of death - coming soon to Murder Mile. Snuck between Old Compton Street and Shaftesbury Avenue, Romilly Street is a soulless void. Being nothing more than a dirty backstreet riddled with the ramshackle rear-ends of some very questionable restaurants, you won’t see a shop, but you may see a gang of rats roughing up a one-legged pigeon, two crack-addicts playing backgammon using their displaced teeth, and a stain-spackled chef keeping his filthy hands warm by ferreting about in his ‘back garden’ and then fondling his ‘trouser vegetables’. But oddly, this was (and still is) a place where people would come to find good food. At 21 Romilly Street currently stands Gauthier, a high-brow vegan restaurant ran by award-winning chef Alexis Gauthier, and back in the late 1960s, this was also an Indian restaurant called ‘Taj Mahal’. As an Indian eatery catering to bland British tastes, the staff at the Taj Mahal were well-used to a little spice in their day; whether being whinged-at by a halfwittery of has-beens who start every sentence with the words “I’m not a racist, but…”, or a spew of yobbos scoffing napalm-flavoured vindaloo to impress their pals, as on a regular basis the staff are threatened, attacked, spat at, abused and robbed. On Saturday 22nd of June 1968, a petty thief tried to steal a small amount of cash from Taj Mahal. It wasn’t a daring heist, but a petulant act which would have resulted in a fine or a few weeks in prison. And yet, allegedly using ‘acceptable force’ to restrain him, three men would be charged with murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 226: Overkill. By the end of the day, three men would be charged with the Taj Mahal murder - Ali Mian, Ali Mokbul and Abdul Subhan. Having committed (what many regard) as one of society’s most heinous crimes, you may assume that these three were all vicious, cruel and remorseless killers… only they weren’t. As the temporary manager of Taj Mahal, Ali Ahmed Mian was born on the 6th of April 1935 in Datra, a small rural village in the Comilla district of what was then British India, now known as Pakistan. Being the fourth of five siblings to two elderly parents and with his father said to be in his 90s, he was raised to be one of the family’s breadwinners and unlike his friends, he had the blessing of a good education. As farm labourers, many of the boys in his village were barely literate, but being intelligent and bright, up until the age of 23, Ali studied Bengali, English, Civics and Economics at college, and although he was part way through his degree, he had to quit to his education so he could work on his family’s farm. This was the way his life would be, by putting his family first and himself second. By 1962, as a married man with two sons aged 6 and 7, although he was earning a decent wage as a clerk for the Water and Power Development Authority in Rangpur, both he, his wife and his children still lived – as many men did – with his elderly parents, but with his plan – one day - to move out. It was then that a golden opportunity appeared. On the 14th of June 1962, his company sent him from the newly formed country of Pakistan to the old and slightly creaky land of England, with the plan to research how the British utility companies work. Britain on the cusp of the so-called swinging sixties must have been a shock to his system; a mess of sex, drugs and sausage rolls; a population of long-haired men and short-skirted ladies neither of whom wore enough clothes to keep warm in a sun-less summer of perpetual drizzle and sometimes snow; all while eating - without doubt - the blandest beigest food ever, so bad, it has to be drenched in salt. Still pockmarked with Victorian slums, crumbling ruins and bombsites from the Blitz, 1960s London was a fiery melting pot of different faces and voices, fighting for space and the right to earn a living as underneath a tension of hostility, sirens, strikes and (what would be known as) Paki bashing simmered. The city was a place of unease and disquiet, but for a man with a dream of a better life for his family and so many mouths to feed, London was a land of potential and promise, but also of peril and pain. Having arrived, he quickly terminated his contract with the company, and went in search of work. And there lied the problem, as although well-educated, his visa restricted him to menial jobs and being described as “thin and sparsely built”, Ali wasn’t physically equipped to be a bouncer or a labourer, so in September 1966, he started work as a waiter at the Taj Mahal Indian restaurant on Romilly Street. Promoted to manager during the months when the owner returned to Pakistan, regarded as “honest” and “reliable”, he worked long hours and slept in a squalid shared room above this busy restaurant. For six years he slogged his guts out, sending - from his wage of £18 per week - the lion’s share back to his wife, his children and his parents, hoping that – one day – he could return to his loved one’s. Ali Mian was a kind man, a good father and (to many) a loyal friend… …and then, on Sunday 23rd June 1968, along with two others, he was charged with murder. So, where did it all go wrong? When did his life go rogue, his morals vanish, and fuelled by drugs, a bad crowd led him down a path of doom and despair? Well, it didn’t. Ali was just a regular man doing his job on an ordinary day when his life was changed forever… the same was said of his two friends. Born in Mandaruka village in Eastern Pakistan in 1941, Ali Mokbul was the only brother to three sisters and two half-sisters, and with his 65-year-old father paralysed down his left-hand-side, he needed to put a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. But not being an academic, his skill was cookery. In 1963, as a married man with two children, keen to provide them with a good life, Ali Mokbul came to London and – working from the ground up – he was as a kitchen porter at ‘The Talk of the Town’, a cook at Anglo Steak House, and was later promoted to a cook at some of the West End’s most affluent restaurants, like Royal Garden Hotel, the White Hall Court and finally at the Café Royal in Piccadilly. Earning a decent wage of £20 a week, he could have partied hearty and lived the high life, but focussed on supporting his family, he worked late, rarely went out, and – rented out by the owner – he lived in small and cramped room on the third floor above the Taj Mahal restaurant with his pal, Abdul Subhan. Also born in Sylat in eastern Pakistan, as a married man with four children, Subhan had met Mokbul when they worked as lowly kitchen porters and dishwashers; and having been promoted to butcher and cook at the Royal Garden Hotel, they shared the £5 per week rent, they lived humbly, and although they had never worked at the Taj Mahal, they were good friends with its temporary manager, Ali Mian. As devout Muslims, they didn’t drink. As family men, they didn’t cause trouble. As law-abiding citizens, they had never been arrested or even questioned. And keen to continue being decent hard-working people, they didn’t break the rules, especially as Subhan was applying for his British citizenship. Their story was typical of many workers from overseas, who just wanted to do well… …but for one man, this chance at change was an opportunity he would squander. Bashir Meah was a 46-year-old unemployed wastrel and petty-thief who was described by the Police (as few people knew him as a friend) as short, stocky and unpleasant. Like Ali, Mokbul and Subhan, although he also came from eastern Pakistan, neither of them new him before the week of his murder. With his parents dead and with no known relatives still living in Pakistan, in 1947, 19-year-old Bashir fled to Britain, and according to his wife Eileen “he hasn’t worked a day in twenty years”. Living off National Assistance handouts, they drifted between council houses, and although they would have two children together – a daughter and a son – their 14-year-old boy was later placed into social care. With a lengthy criminal record and an aggressive streak, Bashir was the kind of blight on society that the Police often questioned, rounded up for line-ups and would turn a blind eye to if he got attacked. Within his first few months in the UK, he was sentenced to six months in prison for assault. In 1952, he served six months for armed robbery and ABH. In 1955, six weeks for stealing 15 cigarettes. In 1956, five years for armed robbery, but just three months after his release, he was back inside serving 21 months for robbery with violence. And so it went on, as like a foul whiff, he drifted between prisons, as being the epitome of a shitty half-witted criminal without a single brain cell, he always got caught. Again, after his release, in 1962 he served 2 years for the theft of a radio, 30 months in 1964 for stealing a briefcase, and 14 days for stealing 13 fruit dishes and 6 months for shoplifting both in 1967, which meant across his career, he spent more time inside than out, which was a blessing for his wife. By April 1968, Bashir and Eileen had moved into a dirty unfurnished council flat at 300 Lewisham Road in Deptford, where he returned to after his release from prison. On the 11th of June 1968, just eleven days before his murder, he was sentenced to three months at Woolwich magistrates court for the charge of shoplifting. But with the magistrate – for whatever reason - being lenient on this repeat offender, his sentence was suspended, and Bashir went back to being a petty thief, a notorious pest… …and a violent thug who beat his wife. Eileen stated: “we fought a lot”. Several times she had threatened to leave, and staying at a friend’s house, “I went home to collect my stuff… my husband arrived. I was frightened. I did not open the door. He picked up a brick and broke it down”, and although they argued, that night she left for good. The last time she saw him alive was on Friday 21st of June 1968 at about midnight, just 20 hours before his death. “He was in bed…”, Eileen said, “I asked him to leave, but he refused. I called the Police to eject him, but they were unable to do so”, and so having begun legal proceedings for a separation, “we were due to be heard at Greenwich Court on 22nd July”. But by then, her husband would be dead. Bashir wasn’t the big-time gangster he thought he was, as to those who had the displeasure of crossing his path, he was nothing but a petty thug and a pointless waste of space, a leech on society who would nick whatever wasn’t nailed down and extort paltry sums of money from hardworking persons. And as a notorious pest who never failed to annoy, one of the places he pestered and pilfered from…. … was the Taj Mahal on Romilly Street. Bashir seen as little more than a nuisance, as according to Isak the cook: “he came now and again for nothing, but sometimes he came to sell stolen items”, only now, he had become very desperate. On Thursday 20th June, two days prior, Ali Mokbul was lured out of his third-floor lodging over the Taj Mahal by Bashir Meah, supposedly “to get some fresh air”. Hailing a taxi, he didn’t know where they were going or why, and neither was he introduced to the stocky white males sitting either side of him. According to Mokbul, they drove for miles to somewhere unknown, until suddenly stopping the taxi “he put a big knife to my throat and said, ‘give me what you’ve got’”. They took his watch, two rings (including his wedding band) and the £5 he had placed in an envelope to send to his wife and children. Mokbul didn’t report the robbery to the Police as he didn’t want to risk losing his job and his visa… …but they all knew one thing, that (like a bad smell) Bashir would be back. Saturday 22nd of June was a day which began as ordinary as any other. Being a little after 5pm, the Taj Mahal on Romilly Street was ghostly quiet, except for Isak prepping the food in the basement kitchen, Ali in the manager’s office organising the cash float for the nights’ business, and three floors above, connected by a single stairwell, Mokbul and Subhan were in their bedroom, resting between shifts. According to their statements, the incident was as unremarkable as any Saturday night in Soho. Ali stated “I was about to open. I looked towards the counter and saw a man pick up my cash box and begin to make off with it”, the man was Bashir Meah, and the cash box held just £3 (or £50 today), but with Ali being the manager and the money belonging to the business, the responsibility was his. Like any decent person, Ali said “I ran after him and jumped on his back. I shouted for help”, screaming ‘come quick, he’s taking my money’, and hearing his cries, Mokbul and Subhan raced down to see this small-time petty thief trapped; in his left hand - the cash box, as in his right – a terrifyingly large knife which he thrust like a striking cobra in Ali’s petrified face, hissing with venom “I’m going to kill you”. Approaching stealthily from behind, Subhan said “I grabbed his right wrist, swung him round, we both fell to the ground. Mr Ahmed & Mr Mokbul assisted me to overpower him”. And with Bashir’s manner described as “aggressive” and “extremely violent”, “we keep him there until the Police came”. With the call logged at 5:38pm, PC Wright arrived at the Taj Mahal restaurant at 21 Romilly Street to the report that the manager and two others “had detained a man for the larceny of cash from a till”. And that was it. A petty-thief and a local pest had failed to steal £3 in loose change; he was cornered, restrained and receiving a few minor cuts and bruises to his face, hands and neck, with the room speckled with a few shards from a broken wine glass which broke in the struggle, the staff were questioned and with Bashir unable or unwilling to respond to questions, being semi-conscious he was taken to hospital for tests. The so-called incident was so uneventful, that with the restaurant late opening and the theatre crowd already queueing up outside, Isak the cook would claim “I went into the kitchen and lit the gas rings”, as to those who were there that night, this was nothing that they hadn’t witnessed many times before. Only this night was about to turn deadly. Taken to Charing Cross Hospital, Dr Dupere, the casualty officer stated “he was semiconscious, and he complained a pain in his leg and difficulty breathing. He was very shocked”. On initial assessment, his injuries were consistent with restraint but also a beating, “he had bruising to his back, grazes down his shins and knuckles, a black eye, a cut to his lip, and a circular wound which looked like a bite mark”. And suspecting “a fractured skull and possible broken ribs”, he was given two x-rays, but having deteriorated fast and with his heart having stopped, at 7:20pm Bashir Meah was declared dead… …and all three men (Ali, Mokbul and Subhan) were arrested and charged with his murder. Interviewed at West End Central police station by Detective Inspector George Chandler, together they had explained how they had caught and restrained him, how he had threatened them and struggled. But interviewed separately, suddenly the story fell apart and a different tale had begun to be told. Upon arrival at the Taj Mahal, PC’s Wright & Moore spotted that things were not as they seemed; “we were shown into a small poorly-lit backroom, on the floor a man lying was on his right side in a semi-prone position. His clothes were disarranged, there were bloodstains on his shirt, he had a deep cut on his upper lip from which blood was flowing, and he had bruises and reddening about the face”. Asked what had happened, the constables were told “we overpowered him and held him down until you arrived”, nothing more. But when asked by the officers “who tied his wrists and his ankles in front of him with rope?”, they all denied this, and according to PC Higgins “the Indians were all jabbering loudly…” as if – shielded by their own language - were they deciding what story they would tell. Isak confirmed that at 5:35pm, seeing all three men struggling with Bashir, “they said ‘we’ve caught a thief’ and I helped them drag him into the small room”. And although proven, none of them could answer why they had dragged him from the hallway to a small, secluded office behind the restaurant? When interviewed, their recollections of the night were vague to say the least. When asked “was Bashir tied up?”, separately they replied, “I don’t know”, “nobody tied him up”, and “I didn’t see that”. When asked “did anyone punch or kick him?”, Mokbul said “I didn’t kick him, I only tried to lift him” and stating “no-one else hit him”; Subhan admitted “I punched him once or twice” but he denied that anyone else did “I didn’t see anyone”; and although their statements varied between how many men were fighting – whether three, two, one or none – Subhan blamed Isak the cook, but he denied this. And although the full extent of the injuries which ended Bashir’s life were yet to be revealed, when asked “did you seen anyone jumping on him?”, separately they would all agree that they hadn’t… …contradicting the evidence of the autopsy. Conducted by Professor Keith Simpson at Westminster Public Mortuary at 10:30am the next morning, with the scuffs, grazes and abrasions set aside, although a fracture ran from the side of the skull into the right eye-socket, his death was not caused by a brain haemorrhage, or exacerbated any disease. It was the bruising to the chest that drew his attention “as there were no external injuries to the front”, where the victim’s wrists and ankles had been tied with rope, but only to the back. And although, all three men had all denied kicking Bashir and jumping on him, “both shoulder blades were fractured”. His back was a patchwork of black bruises and purple swollen lumps covering from his neck to his hips. X-Rays had proven that his cheekbones has shattered and that his right eye had ruptured, but also – underneath several flat wounds which bore the unmistakable outline of shoed feet – something akin to the weight of a man had repeatedly jumped and pummelled up and down, squarely upon his back. Fracturing the shoulder blades and breastbone, the force had snapped 21 of his 24 ribs like dry twigs as his whole chest cavity buckled in. With nothing to protect his internal organs, and these bones as sharp as glass shards; his diaphragm and his spleen ripped apart, both lungs were crushed, and as the life-giving air leaked his flattened chest, his body filled with blood suffocating his heart and his brain. His cause of death was certified as “haemorrhage owing to fractured ribs and crushed lungs” (End). Charged with murder at 4:35pm on Sunday 23rd of June 1968, Ali Ahmed Miah, Ali Mokbul & Adbul Subhan gave statements, and agreed to have their clothes, fingerprints and blood samples taken. Held at Brixton Prison, all three “gave a good account of the incident, knew the nature of the crime and were capable of knowing the acts were wrong”, so therefore they were declared “fit to stand trial”. Tried on the charge of murder – which would not only result in a prison sentence, but also the loss of their jobs and deportation back to Pakistan – their case was heard in a two-day trial at the Old Bailey. With the prosecution laying-out the evidence against them, uniquely for a murder trial such as this where – with no independent witnesses - it was hard to tell who had inflicted what injuries, each man had a different blood group; Bashir was O, Ali was A, Subhan was O negative and Mokbul was B. But with no blood found on either of their clothes and the accused sticking to their story that they had struggled and restrained a violent thief who was holding a knife, on the 11th of September 1968, Mr Justice Paull declared “in view of the evidence, it would be unsafe to ask any jury to convict. In those circumstances, I will take the responsibility of directing them to find the defendants not guilty”. Cleared of all charges – not GBH, ABH or even manslaughter – all three men walked from the court. But were they innocent of a crime, did they use ‘appropriate force’, was this a case of ‘overkill’ which the investigation couldn’t prove, or were the police given a tough choice – to convict three decent men who were pushed too far, or to bring justice to a petty thief who they knew no-one would miss? The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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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 TWENTY-FIVE:
On Saturday 4th August 1945, Private Cyril Patmore knocked on the door of 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
Welcome to Murder Mile. On Saturday 4th of August 1945 at 8:55am, Frederick Keeling, a driver for Taxilux (a local cab company) pulled up outside of 16 Greenhill Road in Harlesden. The street was silent as the residents were roused by the chirp of a dawn chorus and the clatter of a milk cart. Having loaded the first of his fare’s luggage into the boot for what should have been an unremarkable day, it was then that Frederick saw Cyril. Standing outside of his wife’s lodging at 12 Greenhill Road, a short stocky man in an Army battledress slowly approached him, his face a ghastly white, his mouth agog with shock and his pale hands dripping with a deep red ooze, from his fingertips, up his sleeves and with dots spattered up his agonised face. Although slow, he didn’t stumble like a man in pain but a man in shock, as in his hand he held a curved knife, a souvenir from India, which continuously dripped with the warm fresh blood of his victim. Stopping by Frank’s car, the driver stared but didn’t feel afraid, as Cyril wasn’t seen as a threat but as someone who needed help. And as the soldier shook his bloody hands, spattering the pavement, in a quiet voice he uttered “Get the Police, I’ve done my missus”. Unable to comprehend that he had said, Frank asked him to repeat it, and (as if he couldn’t believe it himself) he did, “I’ve just done my missus”. And as Frank drove off to find a phone-box to call the Police, Cyril walked out of Greenhill Road. Only, this wasn’t his escape, as he didn’t he didn’t even attempt to flee. Keen to give himself up, amidst a gaggle of gobsmacked pedestrians, this bloodied and dazed soldier trudged half mile north to Harlesden Police Station, his sluggish demeanour like he had just emerged from a battlefield. And with Frank’s frantic call coming in, by the time Inspector Coote and Sergeant Firster had driven 100 yards, the unmistakable sight of Cyril Patmore was walking towards them. Pulling up, this killer didn’t run. Instead, he stated “I’ve done my wife in”; he gave them the address, he confessed “I did it with this” having handed them a small curved knife from his right trouser pocket, and being cautioned, Cyril’s only reply was “to think it was an Italian she’s been going with”. Having been to 12 Greenhill Road, at 10:30am, Inspector Coote told Cyril “I have seen the body of your wife Kathleen and I am making enquiries into the circumstances of her death”. Described as extremely distressed, clutching the last letters he had sent her, Cyril said “I want to tell you about my trouble”. At that, he made an accurate and lengthy statement, and throughout his main concern was for his family, stating “I live for my children and my wife. They’ve had a rough time since I’ve been away”. In a police report dated the 11th of August 1945, just days later, Inspector Coote wrote sympathetically of Cyril’s case, stating “the motive of the crime is most apparent, and it cannot be disputed that the moral character of the deceased woman (Kathleen Patmore) was of the lowest. There can be little doubt that her moral character during her husband’s absence has been utterly deplorable”. Lying slumped in a bloody heap, Kathleen was dead, and yet, he was the victim, and she was the villain. Across the investigation, it was the immorality of Mrs Patmore which was the motive for her murder. And yet, outside of Cyril and Kathleen, there was one other person who – it can be said – was to blame. The spiteful writer of a letter, send to Cyril in Burma, which told him everything… …and although anonymous, that someone was only known as ‘Joe’. It was during those dark lonely days of the war that Kathleen’s lack of morals came into question. As witnessed by landlords, lodgers, locals and even her own children, no-one was decrying her desire to be loved was lacking, as it’s a very human need. But it was the uncaring way in which she went about it, her unashamed sexual appetite that caused whispers to spread from Farmoor all the way to Burma. Described as ‘coarse and mouthy’, those who disliked Kathleen were said to be unsurprised when a welfare officer was called, when she got evicted from two farms, and her children were placed in their uncle’s care all within the space of a year. Many were shocked at how unashamedly she’d had sex in the woods and even with one-of-three (if not all three) lorry-drivers as her daughter slept beside her. But what riled them most was her fornicating with the Italian Fascists who Britain was fighting against. That level of disgust is how a gust of gossip travelled to Burma… …and set the seeds of her murder in motion. One of those who spoke-up was her sister May, who she had always had a fractious relationship with. When questioned, May selectively said to the police, “I have seen Kathleen on numerous occasions in a field having intercourse with the lorry driver named Gordon. She also carried on with the other driver called Bill. I have spoken to her about her conduct, and she has told me to mind my own business”. And although her statements of Kathleen’s morals were cherry-picked, it was like calling a ‘pot kettle black’, as according to the same witnesses, as a married mother herself, her morals were no better. George Podbery, the landlord of Woodend Cottages stated “I began to think that immoral things were taking place in the cottage. I then did what I could to keep these men away and I told the women I would not allow the men in. They took no notice. I received abuse and insults when I spoke to them”. Possibly out of spite, May had blabbed about her sister’s ‘filthy ways’, but according to Joseph Wiley, licensee of the Seacourt Bridge Hotel in Botley, often it was three women (identified as May, Kathleen and another, said to be one of May’s daughters) whose behaviour was so bad “I asked them to stop”. And whereas Horace, the brother of both women, who – let’s not forget, was the uncle put in charge of the children, instead of it being their Auntie May – he would state “I have seen both women going out at nights to woods near the cottages with Italian prisoners of war. I have also seen them returning at 7am, and it was obvious to me that they had spent the night in the woods with the Italians”. In her statements, May acted like she was an angel, only it’s hard to call someone immoral, when by your own actions, you’re no more moral than you are immoral. She told the Police, “I don’t know the names of any of the men. She was very secretive in nature and told me little about her men friends”. Which was a blatant lie, but as Edward, a lodger in the cottage would state “May was alright until Mrs Patmore arrived, then she seemed to lose control and told me once that ‘this sister would ruin her’”. And technically, she did, as on the 18th of December 1944, both Kathleen (who was pregnant by a man who wasn’t her husband), her sister May and their children were booted out of the cottages. But having moved elsewhere, the immorality continued. Between January and May 1945, at The Nunnery in Eynsham, the farm’s landlord Gordon Blake said Kathleen “was one of two women” (the other being May) “who were consorting with the prisoners”. When questioned, Antonio Frunzo and Mario Saviello of No45 Camp said that they knew both women “only to pass the time of day”; with Mario only “acquainted with ‘May’” and Antonio having “never had sexual relations with her”. Although even admitting to that during wartime was a criminal offence. But was there more to this than just sisterly spite and bitter jealousy? Maybe not. In late April, May discovered that Kathleen was pregnant. Shortly afterwards, Cyril received a letter in Burma, from an unidentified person known only as ‘Joe’, who told him everything and could provide a list of possible fathers. But not only was Joe the nickname Mario gave to May, not only did she draw up a list for the police, but the letter written by ‘Joe’ was said to be in a similar handwriting to May’s. May would state, she believed that Antonio Frunzo, the Italian prisoner of war was the child’s father. But that can’t be true, as with the child conceived between the 21st and the 28th November – easy to recall dates as Kathleen said she was celebrating their wedding anniversary and Cyril’s birthday – she didn’t move to The Nunnery until the January of 1945, two months later, when she first met Antonio. That letter led to Kathleen being investigated by a welfare officer; having her children removed from her care, to her eviction from her lodgings and a paying job, and it ended her relationship with Antonio. Whether that was May, we shall never be certain, but a second letter was also sent by ‘Joe’. Dated the 28th of May 1945, the day Kathleen left for London, it was sent to the Commandant of the No45 prisoner of war camp at North Hinksey, it read; “Dear Sir. I feel it is my duty write to you as it concerns a British soldier, a wife and their five children. One of your men, Antionio Frunzo (also a married man) is going with a Mrs Patmore, who is using the name Miss Stanton. Will you please stop this man seeing this woman as her husband is away in Burma. I am sorry to trouble you, but it is only fair to her husband and children. Perhaps the man could be sent to another camp. I wish this letter to be treated in confidence, as they may not know she is married. Yours respectfully. A British Citizen”. And although sent anonymously, Mario would confirm it was sent by ‘Joe’, as it impacted on him too. That day, Kathleen moved into 12 Greenhill Road to anxiously await Cyril’s arrival… … only May’s bitterness towards her ‘immoral’ sister was far from finished. Arriving at St Pancras on Sunday 29th of July 1945, granted 28-day leave owing to “his wife’s conduct” – news which had caused serious ramifications for his brigade, as his fellow soldiers were now worried about the faithfulness of their wives - he sorted a place to stay, and headed off to see his children. On Tuesday 31st of July, he savoured his time with his children – Reggie aged 16, Christina 12, Terry 6, Noreen 4, and Kathleen aged just 3 - at the home of their Uncle Horace at Lower End Farm in Thrupp. Whilst he was there, Cyril said “I asked Mr & Mrs Jenning and my wife’s relations”, including her sister May “what had been going on while I was away”, and they told him everything. In fact, so helpful was May to this mild-mannered man whose heart had been ripped in two, that according to Cyril “off her, I got a list of names. She said the list was of the men my wife had been going with”, and with her also adding quite maliciously “when you see your wife, ask her to pick the one out of that list”. But even he would admit, “this might have been done for spite because my wife and her sister fight like hell”. During his stay, May said “he questioned me about his wife’s behaviour. I told him the whole truth about everything” – except of course about her own immorality - “and he could not eat nor sleep”. Torn by his tired head and his broken heart, with his children by his side and the list of her lovers in his hand, Cyril (who had often had concerns of his wife’s fidelity, having cheated on her husband with him) had begun to question which of the four children that he assumed to be his, were actually his. Born in the period when he was stationed overseas, Cyril looked at his youngest daughter, 3-year-old Kathleen, and when Horace had asked “do you think it’s his”, it was said that Cyril replied “they’re just like the bastard”. And having wiped his hand with his brow, he huffed and gruffly uttered ‘Jesus Christ’. Cyril had always been suspicious of who his daughter’s father was, as ever since the previous Christmas when he had read a letter written by Kathleen to Frank Tobin, their landlord at 63 Randolph Avenue, which was signed off with the words ‘love especially from YOUR little Noreen”, with ‘your’ underlined. Unable to trust his own eyes, his own wife and the words of her spiteful and bitter sister – who would state, “she always told me that she never intended living with her husband again” - as hard as it was, he knew that the only person he could trust was his own daughter, Christine who was only 12. That’s a lot of pressure to put on a child, being torn between their loyalty to their parents, and in later life, possibly blaming themselves for their own mother’s murder, but he had to know the truth. Asked, Christine said “on at least six or seven occasions I’ve seen ‘Bill’ and ‘Gordon’ sleeping with my mother”. With the evidence undeniable, Maisie, May’s daughter said “Cyril was a devoted husband and father. I never heard him threaten to harm his wife”, but while he was there, “he acted like a man demented. He could neither sit nor stand” and upon leaving the house to head to London, he said one of either two things; “If anything happens, do what you can for the kids”, or a phrase impossible to verify… …“I will do her in and I shall hang for it”. On Wednesday 1st August, “I wandered about all day trying to pluck up the courage”, not to kill her, just to see her and to talk to her, as he knew that just the sight of her swollen belly would upset him. The next day, stealing his resolve with a few thick hits of rum, Cyril headed to 12 Greenhill Road. Being a little inebriated, with the list of his wife’s lovers in his hand, and May’s words still ringing in his ears - “when you see your wife, ask her to pick the one out of that list” – he was in no state to be rational. At about 2pm, Ernest and ‘Marg’, two of the lodgers were told by Kathleen “It’s my husband. I’m taking him upstairs. He’s had something to drink”. They didn’t see him, but both entered her first-floor room. Being drunk and tearful, Cyril claimed “I lost my temper with the way she had let me down. We talked for a while, and I asked her whatever made her do it”, only she didn’t reply to his question. Maybe she didn’t want to, or maybe she didn’t have an answer? Thrusting the list into her hand, she would defend “I don’t know who most of these people are”. And although Cyril was not a violent man, he hit her. Later that evening, ‘Marg’ saw Kathleen in the shared kitchen, her lip cut and her mouth bruised. “She was upset, she said her husband had hit her because she had been carrying on with Yanks and Italians”. In her room, he had spat “I could have forgiven you if it had been anyone else, but not our enemy”, and as several months of pent-up anger bubbled, “how could you expect me to own a child that wasn’t mine?’ he fumed - ignoring the fact that Reggie wasn’t his and possibly their youngest too – and although she pleaded with him to stay, “I couldn’t. I couldn’t be introduced as the father of the child she was carrying, so I left. She shouted, ‘if you go now, you’ll never see me again’. But still I left”. It was not how either of them had wanted this reunion to go, but tensions were high. Kathleen was said to be frightened that Cyril would return, only he didn’t. He needed to cool off, and he knew that. So, that night, having bedded down in a Salvation Army Hostel, being drained and exhausted, he slept. Early the next morning, he hand-delivered a letter through Kathleen’s door. It read “Dear Kath. I would like to have my personal articles”, some of which she had pawned, “please be good enough to meet me a half of an hour from now outside the Odeon. Pat”. On the envelope was scrawled “I love you”. He was sober, it was a safe place, and having vented their anger, they both had a lot of talking to do. At 9:45am, they met as planned. With Cyril’s head downcast and sore, and Kathleen’s mouth swollen and bruised, Cyril said “when I saw her, I felt sorry because I knew she was in trouble. I didn’t ask her for my things. I took her out for the day. It brought back memories of when we used to go together”. They walked in the park, went to the theatre, and they ate a meal in a café where they talked. He still loved her, but along with knowing the truth, he needed to see her remorse so he could forgive her. “I asked her why she had gone as ‘single”, having used an alias of Miss Stanton rather than her married name of Mrs Patmore, but she didn’t reply. Asked what the Italian wanted to do, even though she said she hadn’t seen him in a month, “he waits for me every night… the arrangements were, I would have the child and his people would come over, take it and give me a lump sum”, as if they were buying it. “From her bag, she took out a lot of Italian money and tore it up in front of me”. Whether she was committed to their future, their marriage or their children, he wasn’t sure. Together they could make it work, he knew that, but whether she could remain faithful, that he didn’t know. After a pleasant walk in Paddington Green, Cyril walked her to the bus stop, “here, I’ll wait with you till it comes”. Thinking they had reached a resolution, she said “you’re coming home with me”, being a woman who believed she could get whatever she wanted from a man by using her body. Only, with a bump between them due within the week, being a reminder of her infidelity, he turned her down. “I said ‘no, that’s impossible. How can you expect me to come back and sleep with you, when you’ve been with another man”. Like many servicemen, the one thing which had kept him alive was to come home to be with his beloved wife, “for years I’ve waited for this moment to return, but I was robbed of everything’. And with that, saying their goodbyes, and on the bus he put his heavily pregnant wife. Their ruined relationship had a slim hope of surviving… …but it all rested on whether she loved him. On Saturday 4th August 1945 at 8:50am, having slept fitfully, Private Cyril Patmore entered Greenhill Road in Harlesden. The street was silent, as the residents were roused by the chirp of a dawn chorus, the clatter of a milk cart, and Frederick Keeling, a driver for Taxilux pulling-up to await his passenger. Dressed in his battledress as expected of a soldier on leave, in his pockets Cyril held the list, his wife’s letters and a six-inch knife purchased as a souvenir at an Indian bazaar. “I did not know what to do, but I wanted to see her. I loved her so much. I had every intention of overlooking everything again”. Inside, Kathleen heard him knock at the front door. According to ‘Marg’, “Kathleen said ‘I expect that’s my husband’, she trembled and said ‘I’m finished. I don’t know whether to open the door’”. She froze, as his unmistakable shadow loomed over the frosted door-pane just a few feet away, as she whispered “I’ll let him knock again. Perhaps he’ll put the letter through the door and go away”. Only he didn’t. Informed of her immorality by her family, her sister, herself, and even his own children, for their sake, he wanted to give their marriage a chance. What he needed was the woman he had married and the mother of his children to show him that she still loved him… but – fed-up with his questions and having rejected her - what he got was an “uncouth and mouthy” Kathleen who was unashamed of her actions. From the hallway, she led him into the empty kitchen at the rear of the ground floor, so with the lodgers in their rooms, no-one would hear the foul words she would unleash in his reddening face. To the medical officer of Brixton Prison, Cyril confessed “it was her casual and indifferent attitude… she said ‘you’ve got a bag of nerves asking questions’, I said ‘are you coming, because I’m leaving’” -thereby giving her an ultimatum that if they left together, right now, there was still a possibility of saving what little was left – but with her shouting ‘do what the hell you like’, “I know I was finished”. “I only meant to scar her, so that nobody else could have her but me”, Cyril would state, “she struggled and I stabbed her in the wrong place”. Although whether that was true, only he would know. Hearing a scream, and Kathleen shouting ‘Marg! Marg!’, the tenants raced down to see Cyril, the knife in his hand, his sleeves bloodstained as he tottered into the street, and knowing his life was over, having uttered to Frank “Get the Police, I’ve just done my missus”, moments later, Cyril was arrested. At 9:05am, Dr Crowe, the Police Divisional Surgeon entered the ground-floor kitchen, to see the walls splashed with fresh warm blood, it dripping off the surfaces where the human ooze was yet to congeal. Lying face down on the tiled floor, wearing a print frock and blue ankle socks, Kathleen was pale and lifeless, as owing to her injuries, she was unconscious within a one minute and dead within three. Bleeding profusely from a gaping wound to her throat, with no wounds to her hands nor any signs of a struggle, Cyril’s blade had severed the small muscles of the neck, slicing open her right carotid artery and the right jugular vein, penetrating the upper lobe of the right lung, and draining her heart of blood. Kathleen was dead, but as Dr Crowe rolled over her still-warm corpse - seeing she was heavily pregnant and carrying inside of her a 10lbs and 4 ounce baby, which was barely a week from its birth - through her sopping wet bloody dress, he saw its final kick, as starved of life, the baby died inside of her. (End). Tried at the Old Bailey on 26th September 1945 before Mr Justice Charles, the jury of ten men and two women were said to be in tears as the testimony unfolded. Taking pity on Cyril, owing to the immoral ways of his wife, a verdict of manslaughter was returned, and he was sentenced to five years in prison. With Mr Justice Charles incensed at the jury’s decision, he stated “it would be the law of the jungle if a man finding his wife had been unfaithful once or even twenty times, was entitled to murder her and then say ‘but look at the provocation I have received’. But if manslaughter it be, and I am bound by the jury’s verdict… your counsel has said you were a sorely tried man. If you had not been so sorely tried, I should have been bound to give you a very very heavy sentence” – that sentence being death. As a key witnesses in the trial, May – who it was never proven was the anonymous writer of the letters penned by someone known only as ‘Joe’ - spoke openly of her sister’s ‘wholesale immorality’, which not only lessened her killer’s sentence, but also her spiteful words had condemned Kathleen to death. Serving his time at Wormwood Scrubs, throughout his prison term, Cyril’s concern was “the welfare of my children”, and not trusting his wife’s family, as far as we know, they were placed into care. Upon his release, Cyril Patmore went on to live a good life, he earned a living as a plumber, he remarried, he remained close to his children, and outliving his new spouse, he died in Southwark in 1999… …never fully knowing the truth about the ‘immoral’ Mrs Patmore. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. 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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 TWENTY-FOUR:
On Saturday 4th August 1945, Private Cyril Patmore knocked on the door of 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Greenhill Road in Harlesden, NW10; three roads west of Peter Buckingham’s last gasp, a short walk from the First Date Killer’s callous joyride, two streets east of Dennis Nilsen’s first day as a copper, and half mile from the body parts nobody claimed - coming soon to Murder Mile. As a regular residential street, Greenhill Road consists of two-storey semi-detached red-brick houses, a few trees doted for greenery, and two lines of contractor’s vans parked up outside of (what is often) the worst adverts for their skill; with a builder’s brickwork as smashed as a boxer’s smile, a plumber’s drain as leaky as a pensioner’s plonker and any award-winning driveway as lumpy as a teenager’s face. Only what sets 12 Greenhill Road apart from the others is not how it looks, but what happened within. On the morning of Saturday 4th August 1945, having travelled five and a half thousand miles from war-torn Burma, Private Cyril Patmore was here to speak to his heavily pregnant wife, Kathleen. Expecting to give birth within the week, this should have been a joyous moment for this devoted father of five. But with Cyril knowing for certain that the child was not his, as his ‘immoral’ wife had been unfaithful while he was fighting for his country, what she said in these final moments decided if she lived or died. The Patmore’s tale was as familiar as it was tragic, but with two sides to every story, this part was his. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 224: The ‘Immoral’ Mrs Patmore – Part One. The Second World War was a difficult time for many couples, as being ripped apart for a cause which wasn’t their doing, unsure if they would be together once again, and - occasionally being in need of a kiss, a cuddle or a night’s worth of affection - their morals drifted in a moment of regrettable passion… …but in Kathleen’s case, she loved to be loved whether she was married to the man, or not. Kathleen Marjorie Jenning was born in 1907 in the Oxfordshire village of Wallingford, as one of eleven children to Sarah, a housewife and William, a quarryman. With just six being blood-relatives as her mother had remarried, with barely a year between each child and her father dying young, struggling to feed them all, many of the older siblings had fled the chaos of this fractious squabbling brood. Therefore, it’s no surprise that as one of the youngest, Kathleen was desperate to feel loved. Raised by her widowed mother in Elmdon, Northamptonshire, Kathleen was far from the demure ideal of a 1920s teenage girl, as – shockingly – she drank alcohol, smoked cigarettes, regularly got into spats, and with her mood said to be “foul” and “uncouth”, she was later described as “coarse and mouthy”. As a scrapper, who liked the affections of boys and often fought bitterly with May, her sister nine years her senior, their spiteful childish rivalry would last for the rest of their lives. But as with many of the most impoverished of families forced together, as apart they had nothing – when they needed each other for the sake of survival, these sisters were always there – only not out of love, but necessity. In 1928, aged 21, Kathleen married Alfred Shaw, although how well this family regarded this union is uncertain as her brother Horace said he thought her husband’s name was Wildred. And although, the following year, Kathleen gave birth to a son who she named Reginald, before he was even three years old, she had already began looking elsewhere for love, and her eyes had rested on a man called Cyril. Born in Malta, although not Maltese, Cyril Patmore was the only child of Arthur, an actor, and May, a housewife. With no siblings and very few relations, when he met Kathleen – owing to his mother dying when he was only six, and losing his father aged nineteen – he had lost a lot and longed to be loved. In 1932, Cyril and Kathleen met while he was working as a waiter at the Hind Hotel in Wellingborough. She was local, married, a mother and he knew that, but still - within the month - they had eloped. So, is it so odd that he wouldn’t expect a woman who had cheated on her husband, to later cheat on him? Maybe he had? And having fled, with Cyril raising Reginald (another man’s son) as his own, they lived at Windmill Cottages in Blisworth, and Cyril was cited in the divorce paper between Katheen & Alfred. On 27th November 1937, Kathleen & Cyril married at Oxford Registry Office. Only it didn’t bode well, as on their marriage certificate she lied, stating she was a widow when Alfred was alive. But across their eight-year marriage, they had five children: Christine in 1933 (before the divorce), Terry in 1939, Noreen in 1941 and their youngest Kathleen in 1942, as well as Reginald to Kathleen’s ex-husband. In 1938, seeking work, they moved into a top floor flat owned by Beatrice Martin at 436 Edgware Road in London, who said “they appeared to be reasonably happy”, and although she wasn’t fond of Kathleen, “Cyril was a very decent chap” and a loyal father who took pride in his children’s appearance. And although fractious, their marriage could have survived… …but with the looming war coming to London, soon they’d be split apart. Barely five-foot-tall, stocky and sturdily built, whilst a waiter in London, Cyril had been an ARP warden watching the skies for bombers, and although he didn’t meet the height requirements, short of good men, in December 1940, he was conscripted as a Private in the 1st Battalion of the Royal Scots Fusiliers. As a shock to the system, Cyril went from a wet and cold Britain to a hot and steamy Burma, fighting as part of the 29th Independent Infantry Brigade in its dense and dangerous jungle, battling through a hideous onslaught of bullets and blood, but also rats, snakes, foot rot, man traps and dysentery. In 1942, he survived the bloody Battle of Madagascar and was seconded to the 36th Infantry in India. Like many servicemen forced to fight, all he ever thought of was his wife and children; their faces lost in the midst of his mind and their voices all but a distant memory, as the war drove them further apart. Being more than five thousand miles from home, having missed the birth of Noreen and their youngest Kathleen, his return would always be a special moment for Cyril, or at least that’s what he thought. According to May, Kathleen’s older sister “Cyril joined the Army after a quarrel with his wife”. Whether this was true, we shall never know, but it was clear that their marriage and love-life was struggling. In December 1941, as mother to then four children, Kathleen moved into a larger flat at 63a Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale, as owned by Frank Tobin, who stated “they were happy, he was a good husband. When he got leave, he came home” although “she spoke of being fed up when he was away”. While he was serving overseas, Frank remained a good friend to Cyril, a much-needed man-about-the house to Kathleen, and a friendly uncle figure to her children especially when baby Kathleen was born. And although he was ‘just a friend’, it was suspected that Frank was father to her youngest child. If he wasn’t, why did he send Kathleen £2 every week… …out of kindness, or a moral duty? As if this fractured family hadn’t suffered enough, owing to the endless onslaught of blitz bombs which illuminated this smouldering city with a choking cloud of raging red flames and deathly black smoke - as part of Operation Pied Piper – her five children were evacuated to the safety of the countryside in 1942, but owing to the V1 rockets which pummeled the West End, Kathleen followed in May 1944. Moved 60 miles west of London to the tiny village of Farmoor, it was as remote as you could get, being just a few farmhouses on the bank of the White Horse reservoir, a passing canal and a woody outcrop. With the city burning far on the horizon, but no reason for bombs to drop here, Kathleen and her kids moved in with her older sister May at Woodend Cottages, along with May’s daughters Cissie & Maisie, as well as the lodgers; three truck-drivers for Hudson & Hope haulage, called Gordon, Percy and Bill. For Kathleen, Farmoor was a place where this lonely lady could find the love she was longing, but as a space where strangers don’t go unnoticed, even the slightest whisper of immorality carried far. For May, Kathleen’s goings-on would risk the rented home she lived in with her husband and children, as (just three weeks in) her lodgers were getting a little more than bed and breakfast from Kathleen. May would say: “I saw Kathleen on numerous occasions in a field”, believed to be Bean Wood, “having intercourse with the lorry driver named Gordon. She also carried on with the other driver called Bill. I spoke to her several times about her conduct, and she has told me to mind my own business”. And as the gossip spread like wildfire, Kathleen quickly gained a bad reputation among those who would condemn her and “in addition, she was friendly with other men from the Forces stationed nearby”. At the Black Horse pub in Botley, the landlord said “when it came to closing time, she started singing, and when I asked her to leave, she told me to stick my pub up my arse… I have seen her drinking on many occasions with different men, mostly soldiers. She was a most horrible type of woman”. She had been there barely a month, and as a married mother of five children, whose faithful husband was risking his life for King and Country, she had no shame in her actions, even around her own family. When interviewed, 12-year-old Christine told the Police about when she was frightened by the distant bombings she would share her mother’s bed, and how she was not the only one who did: “sometime during the night, the three lorry drivers came to my mother’s room. One of them, Bill, got into bed with my mother and slept with her. The other two who had their own beddings, slept on the floor”, and in the same room as this young child, “I saw him sleep with my mother on six or seven times”. “When they began to suspect that I knew, my bed was put back into the attic”. And being out of sight and out of mind, that should have shamed her to stop, only it didn’t. When the landlord found out, Kathleen, along with May and her kids were kicked out of Woodend Cottages, and described as “living in unfit conditions”, Kathleen’s children were sent to be looked after by her brother Horace in Thrupp. But by that point, the catalyst for Kathleen’s murder had already begun… In a difficult letter to Cyril she wrote “you asked me why I didn’t tell you before, well shame, remorse, frightened, call it what you like, but each time I write to tell you about it I hadn’t the nerve… the pity is I was celebrating your birthday and our wedding day all in one”, suggesting that she had sex with an unnamed man between the 21st and the 27th of November 1944, “and having four miles to walk home, well evidently I didn’t make it… I didn’t go into it cold sober otherwise it wouldn’t have happened…”. …and being in Burma at the time of its conception, everyone knew that Cyril was not the father. Having said she felt “shame” and “remorse”, having been evicted and with her kids all being removed from her care, that should have shocked her into being decent, only it did not stop her immoral ways. Having found a place to stay and a spot of work on the farm of Gordon Blake in Eynsham, Oxfordshire, ironically called The Nunnery, although it had long since quit being a place of morality and chastity, a sense of unpatriotic filth would descend over this farm owing to Kathleen and her sexual appetite. Based at No45 Camp at North Hinksey, two Italian prisoners of war - Antonio Frunzo & Mario Saviello – worked the land to feed the British people as part of their punishment, but while the Allies (like Cyril, her loving and loyal husband) were risking their lives to fight the Fascists, she was busy fucking them. Farmer Blake would state “for four months she practically lived with four Italian prisoners of war”, and given her notice to leave in May 1945, he’d say “I desired her to leave the farm as soon as possible”. Kathleen’s life was a mess which was all her own doing. Although a sweet and mild-mannered man, she worried what he might say or do upon hearing that – having left his wife in charge of their life – she had been evicted twice, their five children were in care, and she was pregnant by another man. She was terrified of telling him what she had done… …but whispers can carry far, across land, sea and air, all the way to Burma. In April 1945, Cyril received an anonymous letter from someone in England called ‘Joe’. Arriving by air-draft and with the original destroyed, it told him she was pregnant by an Italian prisoner of war. Rightfully, he was angry, but – foremost, as a loving father – he contacted the ‘Soldier’s, Sailor’s and Airman’s Society’ and had a welfare officer check on his children, who were doing well with their uncle. Penning several letters, he asked Kathleen about the children, in which she replied: “my darling Pat”, being his nickname, “I was surprised you wrote to SSAFA. Rest assured they are in excellent health and going to school. Everything in England is looking lovely now and I’m sure you will be glad to get home. Mrs Martin is making the rest of the silk up for Kitty & Noreen’s dresses, you will be proud” and heartlessly, “Pat, you will have a few surprises all round. All my love for now. Yours as always. Kath”. With no mention of her infidelity or the pregnancy, when questioned, she’d reply… “My darling. …one thing I know is that you loved me, otherwise you wouldn’t have been so hurt… God knows I couldn’t go on without you… but should a moment of madness bring me a lifetime of sadness… I didn’t mean to do it, believe me sweetheart, and don’t start a divorce I just couldn’t stand that. I feel too ashamed for you to see me in this condition, yet how I wish I could see you to talk to you”, and as if to pre-empt her fate, she would chillingly write “it wouldn’t matter what you did to me. Yours Kath”. By May 1945, with Hitler dead and the war essentially over, a heavily pregnant Kathleen had moved back to the charred remains of London, with her children still living in Thrupp with their uncle Horace. On the 28th of May, 39-year-old Kathleen Patmore moved into a small furnished first-floor room at 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden, a two-storey semi-detached house with eight rooms for seven lodgers and a shared kitchen. Owned by Edward Treeves, an undertaker, along with Rebecca Ellie, a 22-year-old married woman known as ‘Marg’ who had become a new friend to Kathleen, they all liked her. Kathleen had changed. Being no longer a drunk, foul-mouthed or shagging strange men, as the tenants would testify, she was just a pregnant woman awaiting the arrival of her husband serving overseas. In their eyes, Kathleen was quiet and kind, as for them she made meals and mended clothes, and in reference to the bulging bump in her belly, she would joke “he’ll be walking in any day. I don’t know what he’ll do”, as even he didn’t know what he would do, “but he has threatened to strangle me”. In further letters, Kathleen spoke of her fears, “I’m wanting to see you, but I don’t think I will have the nerve to face you, you see you have always been a decent man and looked after me, how it hurts to know I have let you down. Oh darling, will I ever be happy again, not without you of that I am certain”. And in another, she spoke of her hope. “my greatest wish is to have my children with me, God knows I miss them… I suppose you will tell me it is my job to look after them, it is, but now I can’t, that’s where my heartbreak comes, apart from you and how I’ve let you down, the innocent are suffering for my mistakes. Don’t give this address to anyone, I’ve finished with the lot… yours as always, Kath”. With that last letter written one month before her murder, Kathleen’s spirits were buoyed by a reply dated Sunday 27th June, in which Cyril wrote: “Hullo dear… however I will take it for granted that you do love me in your in your kind of way, otherwise you wouldn’t give me such a lovely lot of children, my love for you is without a doubt, I haven’t come up to what a husband should be and perhaps it was because I was young and inexperienced, however for all the ups and downs, we had some good times and plenty of laughs and I am looking forward to all those days again, especially our little thrills when you used to faint, it’s going to be hard at first, however with your help we should be able to get a nice little home together and live happy ever after. Oh roll on the day when I can straighten things out a bit and settle down to the second chapter of married life. Love to all, yours always, Pat”. Upon his arrest, some suggested that her murder was premeditated. But with the weapon, a clasp knife purchased at an Indian bazaar months before he knew she had been cheating - that aside – his letters don’t sound like an angry vengeful husband hellbent on slicing open his cheating wife’s throat. If anything, having spoke of his hope, a wife, his kids and a home, being upset but not volatile, he knew that if he killed her, and was convicted, his children would have a worse life than if she had lived. So, although her murder was fated… …it wasn’t why he had come back. Granted 28 days of compassionate leave from his new posting in India, having travelled five and a half thousand miles to London, on the morning of Sunday 29th of July 1945, Private Cyril Patmore arrived at St Pancras station. Dressed in his battle fatigues and with a knapsack on his back, although in his possessions he had the knife he would take her life, he didn’t rush off to Harlesden in a crazed frenzy. Instead, seeking a trusted friend’s advice, he had a cup of tea with Frank Tobin, their former landlord at 63 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale. In need of accommodation, he visited Beatrice Martin, their other landlady at 436 Edgware Road who gave him a bed for the night, and having said of Kathleen “she has done a terrible thing to me”, he would state “she must be punishing me for this”, as if he was blaming himself for being sent overseas to fight for his country, even though the choice wasn’t his. Appearing “dejected and ill”, on Tuesday 31st July, he travelled to Lower End Farm in Thrupp, to see his children and to be reassured that their welfare was good in the hands of their Uncle Horace, and it was. Staying the night, he was happy that they were doing well, and seeing May who relayed the whole sorry tale of Kathleen’s infidelity, they were heartbroken at the way his wife had treated him. He was tired and upset, but there was no anger or rage in the man who would murder her. (End). On Saturday 4th August 1945, just shy of 9am, Cyril went to 12 Greenhill Road in Harlesden to see his wife. Being barely a week from giving birth, the day before, they had spent a few hours together. She apologised and explained, he spoke of how he had wished he hadn’t been away, how he had saved up to take them on a holiday, and – with their time together going as well as can be expected - they went to the theatre to watch a show, they had a nice meal, he saw her onto the bus to take her home, and although she had invited him back – hoping that he would stay over – politely he had declined. It wasn’t easy, no-one had expected it would be, but it didn’t feel like a precursor to a murder. “I explained to her that she was the only woman in my life” and although his heart was broken, given time, it could be repaired. But that morning, pushed to his limit, this quiet man would slit her throat. In a statement to the police, with her blood still on his hands, Cyril said “I live for my children and my wife. I hope they will be well looked after. They’ve had a rough time since I’ve been away”. Arriving in London, his manner mild and his thoughts far from murder, what plagued the investigation was what had whipped him into such a frenzy that it had driven him to kill the woman he still loved. The sex aside, it had all began with a letter from someone in England who was known only as ‘Joe’, and as a whisper of gossip which had travelled on the breeze, those words had led to Kathleen’s death. But who would be so spiteful, as to risk her life, by telling him about his ‘immoral’ wife? The ‘Immoral’ Mrs Patmore concludes next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND TWENTY-THREE:
On Monday 27th of August 1923 at 12:45am, 18-month-old Dorothy Kaslofski drowned in the river Thames having been thrown from Westminster Bridge. Only she didn’t fall, she was thrown by her mother in an act of mercy, having been given some devastating news by a doctor that her daughter’s life wouldn’t be worth living. But was he wrong, had she misheard, or did was this a lie?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a blue exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Westminster'. 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 Westminster Bridge, SW1; three streets west of the assassination of Sir Michael O’Dwyer, four streets east of Thomas Meaney being mistaken for a tailor’s dummy, four streets west of the odd excuse Martha Browning used to murder her elderly bed mate, and one street north of the cruel ship’s Captain who couldn’t fathom why he was going blind - coming soon to Murder Mile. Spanning the River Thames from Waterloo to Big Ben, Westminster bridge is an 820 foot long, 85 foot wide, seven arch cast iron structure completed in 1862. Supposedly, painted green to match the seats our politician’s bone-idles bums are perched on at the House of Commons, if that’s true, I’d expect to see the bridge fiddling its expenses, banging rent-boys, hoofing blow, sexing up WMD dossiers, and voting to pump 50 million tonnes of raw shit into our waters, having first sold their river-front mansion. Seen as the epitome of calmness, the River Thames belies its dangerous side, as under its vast expanse of brown silt (in which visibility is zero), sits a muddy bed of thick sludge (impossible to wade through) upon a 9-mile-an-hour tide with deep undercurrents which can drag the strongest swimmer under. With a dead body recovered from the River Thames roughly every six days, some die by suicide, some fall by accident, and some lives are lost as a good Samaritan dives in to save those from their deaths. On Monday 27th August 1923 at 12:45am, 18-month-old Dorothy Kaslofski became the latest casualty to this treacherous water. Only she didn’t fall, she was thrown by her mother in an act of mercy, having been given some devastating news by a doctor that her daughter’s life wouldn’t be worth living. But was he wrong, had she misheard, or did was this a lie? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 223: “A Cripple for Life”. (heavy river sounds) In court, Mr Justice Swift would ask the medical expert: “have you heard anything in the evidence inconsistent with a sane strong-minded woman, passionately fond of her baby, taking its life because she was convinced it was the best thing for the baby?”, Dr Morton replied “that would be a very uncommon view for a mother to take”, and although the judge heartily agreed, “but unfortunately, we know of cases where people think the best way to benefit a child is to destroy it”. Ada was one such woman, but what would drive a mother to do the unthinkable? Ada Elizabeth Street was an ordinary girl born on the 12th of February 1897 amidst the bustling hubbub of King’s Cross. As a working-class family squeezed into a tumbledown two-room dwelling like over-ripe fruit in grocer’s bin, the lives of this family of eleven were not without poverty or tragedy. Of her surviving three brothers and five sisters to Ada Attaway, her mother and her father Thomas, a painter, Ada began life as one of twin sisters. As the mirror image of the other, dressed in matching dresses and never far from each other’s side, the first tragedy to strike took that half of her young life, as barely into her infancy, although she had no history of epilepsy, her twin sister died of convulsions. Whether Ada witnessed this in her crib - the rolled terrified whites in her sister’s eyes, the forming froth around her rictus grin, and her tiny body twitching in a fevered shake as her colour drained from a peachy pink to a pale white with deathly tinges of blue - is uncertain, but as the first great grief to grip her, a worry which may have plagued her for her short sad life could have been if it was hereditary. It’s no surprise, living her life as half-of-the-person she once was, that many described Ada as “a happy sort of girl, but erratic, excitable and troubled”, especially as the family tragedies continued. Aged 16, her young father died of a heart attack. As was expected, her mother remarried, and although William Street, a harness maker was a good provider for the family, like Thomas, he died of an aneurism. And as if poverty and grief wasn’t enough to burden this family, World War One brought terror to London. From this broken little home at 34 Litcham Street in Kentish Town, death rained down as – unlike the ceaseless cacophony of screaming bombers and doodlebugs which draped London’s skies in a choking cloud of fiery reds and doom-ladened blacks – Germany’s fledgling air-force unleashed this first blitz on this city by airship, as a fleet of monstrous balloons drifted silently, looming like the Reaper himself. Life was hard for Ada, as it was for many who were sparely educated and barely skilled. And as a short dumpy girl, with freckled cheeks, a vague grin and a brown bob as ragged as a fox dragged backwards out of a bush, she hadn’t got the benefits that her more attractive contemporaries would unfairly get. When she could, she earned a living as a domestic servant for middle-class women, aged 19 she was imprisoned for 21 days for stealing blankets, and being prone to making rash decisions as too often her emotions fuelled her depression, she was mostly teetotal, as drink would cloud her judgement. Ever since she could remember, Ada’s life had been plagued by loss and tragedy. What she wanted was a happy marriage and a healthy child… …but – spurned by fate - it was not to be. On the 28th of April 1920, Ada Street married Alexander Kaslofski known as ‘Alec’, a Jewish cabinet maker who was born and raised in Hoxton to a German mother and a Russian father. Living with his mother at 13 Kent Street, for the first two years they lived happily enough, but with Ada having told an odious lie from the start (which no-one ever spoke of), soon enough, their marriage unravelled. Conceived on their wedding night, although they were both thrilled at the impending arrival of a pink bundle of joy, five months into her pregnancy, Ada miscarried, bled copiously and almost lost her life. Many couples bounce back from such a painful tragedy, but for Alec & Ada, with the seeds of mistrust having been sown so early into their relationship, it didn’t make them stronger, but more distant. Around this time, a frantic and depressed Ada wrote her mother a letter, in which she said that “Alec was treating her badly… he had knocked her about many times… he denied her money to eat or live…” and that seeing no way out of her dire and desperate situation, “she said he wanted to drown herself”. But when her mother came to her door, although denied access by Alec’s mother who disliked her, “I didn’t see any bruises. As far as I could tell, she hadn’t been badly treated. I never saw anything in her husband to complain of… she complained of being hungry but there was always food in the house”. Talking to Alec, she heard that Ada had pawned his suit and some blankets to make money for herself, and that when she had told her mother that “she had got consumption and that a doctor had told her she’d only got three months left to live”, she couldn’t find any evidence to back any of it up. But was this a symptom of Ada’s depression, her grief at losing the baby, or was she making it up for attention? In December 1921, Alec & Ada moved into 105 Cambridge Street in Westminster, a small room in a three-storey dwelling, hoping that a fresh start would do them good, as again, Ada was pregnant. The last few months had been an anxious time, as every time her stomach buckled with cramps, Ada’s nerves frayed at the thought of another baby ending in a miscarriage. Only this time, with fate (for once) smiling on her, on 2nd February 1922, a baby girl was born, who she named after her dead sister. A little under-weight but blessed with a healthy pinkish hue, dark hair like her mum, and all her fingers and toes, Dorothy Catherine Kaslofski was a happy and healthy baby, who – all the neighbours in the street who once loved sleeping would agree - had oodles of energy and a very strong set of lungs. It should have been the epitome of perfection, as Ada had everything she had ever wanted… …but with the relationship in tatters, the stresses of a baby, only made it worse. On the 7th of June 1922, four months after Dorothy’s birth, Alec & Ada separated. With both of them moving back in with their parents, Ada obtained a Separation Order and although Alec was required to pay maintenance of £1 per week for the upkeep of his family, Ada’s mother looked after the child. Whether it was through need or neglect, Ada restarted her job as a parlour maid, first to Mrs Hogg at 22 Radington Road, Hampstead, and later to Mrs Lillian Richardson at 45 Haverstock Hill in Chalk Farm. Working long hours for little pay, she saw very little of Dorothy across the next few months, so when she had to, Mrs Richardson let her bring the baby to work. But this was as infrequent as it was brief, as – more often than not – if Ada wasn’t off sick, it was clear from her demeanour that she was unwell. Elsie Botting, a butcher’s girl who made deliveries to Ada’s work would state “she told me her husband was an awful villain, he treated her badly and that she had left him”. Although in truth, he had left her, so no-one really knew whether he was a nasty piece-of-work, or she was fond of spinning stories. Her employer, Lillian would state “once or twice, when she had received a letter from him, she said she would drown herself and the baby in the river, but I laughed and did not think much about it”. And who would? As a habitual liar, who had told tales to her husband, her mother, her closest friend and also her employer, even the doctors couldn’t tell if Ada was sick, struggling or just flat-out lying, Later examined by Dr Morton, the medical officer of Holloway Prison “she admitted she was depressed and dazed…”, that over the last few months “she’d had some very severe headaches, suffered from insomnia, and had a feeling at the back of her head which she described as ‘the dripping of water’... the sound of running water in her ears and unrecognisable voices telling her to ‘finish it off’.” Gripped by paranoia, anxiety and depression, with Ada separated from her husband, seeing her child very little and with the unresolved grief of a dead father, a dead twin and her first child also dead, how much of that statement she gave - after the murder - to Dr Morton is true, only Ada would know? Either way, it can’t have been easy, as plagued by the worry of hereditary illness… …when Dorothy got sick, her anxieties flooded back. On 12th March 1923, finding the funds himself, Alec’s mother took Dorothy to see Dr Lennox Broster, a clinician at The Children’s Hospital in Hackney. Examined, the 11-month old child wasn’t in any pain and she was eating and sleeping well, but when she raised her arms, “it was clear she had a weakness down the left side of the body, which I thought was due to some injury during birth”, Dr Broster would state, “I had the child x-rayed”, which ruled out anything sinister, “and I ordered her to wear a splint”. Over the next five months Dorothy was examined, and as Alec confirmed “she seemed to improve”. Only, the relationship between Ada and Alec did not. As their resentments simmered, things came to a head when Alec was unable to keep up the payments as his work had dried up, and – under Ada’s care - the weakness in Dorothy’s left arm hadn’t got better, but worse. As the best solution to a bad situation, Ada had her daughter handed over to Alec’s mother, with Ada calling by “a day a week, often Tuesdays and alternate Sundays” to kiss and cuddle her baby. For the next few months, although they lived apart, the sparks often flew between this waring couple, as their child was used as a rope in an emotional tug-of-war, between the father who wanted to see his child well and the mother who wanted to see her child more. With trust broken, lies spilled, anger seething and tempers erupting, often the child cried, and on occasions, the police were called. With Ada given permission by her employer (Lillian Richardson) to bring her child to work with her, as she had no child-care, on Monday 13th August, Alec paid her a visit at 45 Haverstock Hill in Chalk Farm. He would later admit it was a stupid thing to do, as he was angry, upset and he wasn’t thinking straight. As their hurtful words spawned into abusive curses and the baby screamed, Ada would state “he struck me three times in the chest. Mrs Richardson tried to get him out of the house, he pushed her away”. Being witnessed by a neighbour, Alec confessed “I lost my temper with my wife for telling me a lie”, what it was we don’t know, “I pushed her once or twice and Mrs Richardson threatened to shoot me”. With no-one hurt, it only seemed like a little fight… …but that minor spat had big ramifications for Alec, Ada and Dorothy. Two days later, backed up by Mrs Richardson, “I wrote to my husband”, Ada said “and told him I was going to have the baby. On Wednesday 15th August, I fetched her, a policeman with me, as I thought my husband might assault me. My husband was there. He said he was sorry the baby was going”. With the cogs of law churning, Alec was summoned to Old Street Police Court for Ada’s assault. Having been charged, the magistrate varied the Separation Order, Ada was given full custody of her child, and as the toddler tottered away from 13 Kent Street, that was the last time that Alec saw his daughter. In the eyes of the court, Alec was a violent man unfit to be a parent, and yet Ada was not a well woman. Just days before, still plagued by anxiety and depression, she told her mother “suppose I done myself in mum?”. Only her mother dismissed it, “don’t talk foolish” as Ada had always been a habitual liar. But by the end of the week… …Dorothy would be dead. On Friday 24th August, Ada took Dorothy to The Children’s Hospital. Dr Lennox Broster stated “I believe that was the first time I had seen the mother”, so although she had been told everything the doctor had already said by her mother and Alec’s mother, he was obliged to go through it all again with Ada. “The child was unable to raise the left arm above the shoulders and there was some weakness in the left leg. I had the shoulders x-rayed and there was an ill-defined upper paralysis for which I ordered a splint to be worn. I told her it was probably a birth injury and that it would take time to get quite well”. As a fit and healthy toddler, Dorothy was still growing, and like many children with a minor disability, they had caught it early enough and were able to do something about it. But sometimes, in moments of crisis, we don’t always hear everything what we should, and how we interpret those words is key. Dr Broster stated in court “I told the mother that the injury was probably due to birth-paralysis. I did not use the words infantile paralysis”, a much more serious disability, of which there is little recovery. Only Ada would claim “I was told by the doctor that she had infantile paralysis. This distressed me, as several people told me there was no cure”. And having cried her eyes out, as she told her loved-one’s that Dorothy had a “tubercular spine” and was likely to “be a cripple for life” - maybe with the memory of those she had lost before still haunting her – “it made me decide to destroy myself and the baby”. Nobody believed her story… …as nobody ever had. Sunday 26th August began like any other. Having dressed Dorothy in a pink woollen coat and hat, Ada fed the little tot, popped her in a pram, and they both headed off to Regent’s Park to feed the ducks. To anyone watching that day, Ada looked like any other woman doing her duties as a loving mother. But underneath, she was a swirling torrent of depression, as – according to Ada – inside her tired brain, the relentless dripping of water flooded her mind, and a voice slowly uttered ‘finish it, finish it off’. That day, she quit her job, she handed her mother the keys to her trunk, she drank a whiskey (which was strange, as she had always been teetotal), and she wrote several letters to her loved one’s. To her mother: “This is just a goodbye forever. I hope by the time you receive this my baby and I are dead. I cannot face any more, it broke me up when I was told that baby is cripple. So goodbye to all. From Ada & Baby”, in which she left 10 shillings to pay her debts and asked for her clothes to be sold. To her friend, Mrs Gilbert: “I thank you with all my heart for the pleasant times you have given me, but I could go through no more, so have taken baby with me where we shall know no more pain”. And to her husband, Alec, she enclosed their marriage certificate, daughter’s birth certificate and their separation papers, as well as a letter, as grammatically terrible as it was chillingly cold. It read “I shall never hear from you again, and you will never see Dorothy alive. I can never see my child grow up a cripple… I shall never know, but the day will come when deep in your heart you will be sorry! I have kiss Dorothy for you. I shall never be taunted by you anymore. So goodbye. From Dorothy’s mother”. But by the time he had received the letter, it was too late. (voice ‘‘finish it, finish it off’) Having caught the omnibus to Victoria Embankment, Ada was seen pacing along the north side of the Thames, her baby in her arms. Spotted at 12:35am by two men - John Puffer and Albert Arch – they would state “she looked at us… she was walking quickly and seemed worried… so we followed her”. At that time of night, Westminster bridge was deathly quiet and ominously dark, as a still wind howled through the cold steel structure. With no buses, no boats, no cars and very few people, Ada was little more than a shadowy spectre amid the dull yellow haze of several streetlights and the face of Big Ben. As she cradled her baby on the first parapet, forty feet below, this dark and dangerous river ran. On top, its flat brown expanse belied a fast greedy rapid of swallowing currents, a thick sludge which no-one could wade through, and – being high-tide – it sped West, faster than many could swim or run. (Sounds of the river waters, and the voices increasing - ‘finish it, finish it off’, ‘drown her’). Albert would state “…when we got to 20 yards from her, she turned and threw the baby into the river”. Sprinting fast as the baby vanished under the bridge and into the murky darkness beyond, as they got close, “she attempted to get over the parapet. She had got over with the exception of one leg. I and my friend got hold of her, pulled her back and we held onto her, and a pal sent for a Police Constable”. When apprehended, Ada was said to be “quite calm”. When asked why she had done it, she said “the doctor has given up all hopes of my baby, it is a cripple”. At one point, she did ask the PC to save it, but with the baby gone, swept away and submerged into the silty blackness of the River Thames… … only a fool with a death-wish would even try to save her. Detained at Cannon Row police station, Ada was charged with the murder of 18-month-old Dorothy Catherine Kaslofski and the attempted suicide of herself. She was cautioned and replied “I did what I did as it was for the best, and I wanted to go with her. I couldn’t see my child grow up a cripple”. (end) Giving a full statement of her actions, her demeanour was described as cold and unemotional, with her later stating “I am not a bit sorry, because it is for the best. I should have been at the bottom of the river with my baby, if those men had not got me. I am prepared for the penalty”. And then asking, “has my baby been found?”, and hearing that it hadn’t, she replied “I wonder where she has got to?” Five days later, the body washed up on the foreshore by Barnes Bridge, seven miles west, and it was taken to Mortlake Mortuary. Examined by Dr Parry, “the body was well-nourished with no marks of violence… death was by asphyxia from drowning…” and as for her disability “there was no disease in the arm or elbow… most likely, an irritation in the spinal cord had caused this clenching of the hand”. Declared sane, on 19th October 1923, Ada was sentenced to death at the Old Bailey. But later proven to be insane at the time of the murder, although without an ounce of sympathy, Mr Justice Swift had declared “one must look with horror on any claim of a parent to take a child’s life”, the jury were sympathetic to her plea, as was the Home Secretary who later commuted her sentence to life in prison. After two years as an in-patient at Broadmoor Criminal Asylum, Ada was released on 28th September 1925, and having served her time, she returned to her family, and the rest of her fate is unknown. 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 TWENTY-TWO:
On Thursday 23rd of November 1967 at just shy of midnight, Eric Simmons and David Williams entered GiGi’s, a low rent striptease at 62 Frith Street in Soho. They paid their money, they had a drink, they watched the show, and then seven words were spat. A few minutes later, one of them would be dead.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location is marked with a lime green exclamation mark (!) near the words 'Soho'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Frith Street in Soho, W1; a few doors down the café where the Terror of Malta didn’t pay for a cup of tea, a few doors up from the Blackout Ripper’s floppy penis, a few doors opposite of the infamously boring death of William Hazlett, and several doors up from the so-called battle of Frith Street, where two sad little street-toughs – Albert Dimes and Jack Spot - had their petty spat ended by a lady greengrocer who whacked these prize dick-heads over the bonce with either a vase, a ladle or some weighing scales - not coming soon to Murder Mile, because it’s a load of old crap. At 62 Frith Street currently stands Circa, a small ground-floor club in a four storey Victorian terrace. Described as ‘Soho’s leading gay bar’, it boasts a long line of red-cheeked men sucking hard on thick pink straws, a chorus of excitable bums squeaking eagerly on waxed leather seats, a resident DJ (who many reviews state gets a tad tetchy should anyone dares make a request – like ABBA), and – what their website hails as – ‘the hottest boys around’, although that could be down to the faulty air-con’. Every business has rules; some are fair, some are unjust, and some are fatal. In the late 1960s, at 62 Frith Street stood GiGi’s, a classic Soho strip club where drunk men paid over the odds to sit in the dark and leer at a bored-looking lady undressing, in the hope of seeing a nipple. On Thursday 23rd of November 1967 at just shy of midnight, Eric Simmons and David Williams entered GiGi’s. They paid their money, they had a drink, they watched the show, and then seven words were spat. Three strangers met that night; one with a job to enforce a futile rule, two who were furious over a pointless principle, and with no-one benefitting either view, nobody won, and a life was lost. But what seven words were so bad, that it caused the manager to commit murder? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 222: The Five Shilling Striptease. On 12th December 1967, at Great Marlborough Street police court, 29-year-old Alfred Saliba, the new manager of Gigi’s striptease was charged with the murder of a customer in his club. Only, he didn’t have a history of violence and he wasn’t defending a friend; he was just an ordinary man doing his job. Alfred Joseph Saliba was born on 13th September 1938 in Birkirkara, a prosperous city in central Malta. As the fifth youngest of eight children with four brothers and three sisters, he said his childhood was happy and uneventful. Educated to a semi-literate level to the age of nine, for two years this sturdy little boy sold peanuts on the street and worked on building sites as a labourer to support his family. Seeking better prospects, in February 1954, the Saliba’s emigrated to Perth in Western Australia. And where-as by the time most kids left school and had no idea what a hard day’s work even was, aged sixteen, Alfred had been grafting for seven years, and was skilled as a hod-carrier, a tiler and a roofer. In 1958, keen to carve out his own career, alongside his brother Charles, they started trading as ‘C & A' Ltd, doing wall and floor tiling from their parent’s home in Secondary Avenue, Bassendean in Perth. Alfred was hard-working and proud, but this was not to say that he didn’t drift a little wide of the law or subtly skip an odd rule or two when it suited him. Far from being a big-time criminal – like most people – he saw a little fib or a cheeky slight-of-hand as nothing more than doing right by his family. On 16th July 1957, at Perth police court, Alfred was fined $5 for stealing bicycle spares. On 4th August 1958, he was fined $10 for larceny. On 20th May 1963, he served a month in prison for driving while disqualified. And on 5th January 1967, he was fined $142 for stealing building materials from houses which were under construction. Two months later, his company folded, and he was left penniless. Aged 28, with no job, no home and a criminal record hanging over his head, returning to his homeland of Malta to visit his relatives and do a little bit of work on a cash-in-hand basis, after six months he decided to try his luck elsewhere, in the far less-sunny windswept isle of gloomy old Britain. Arriving on 28th of August 1967, amidst a wall of perpetual drizzle, the drone of factory-produced pop hits and food redefined as an endless slew of pig’s bits and fried shit swimming in a sea of grease, still sporting the scars of the blitz and the whiff of free love (but mostly BO), London would be his home. Unlike many who had snuck in dishonestly, Albert did it right; he had a passport, a visa and a six-month work permit, so once he’d made enough money, he planned to return to Australia to rebuild his life. So, why did he travel half-way across the world, just to find work in Soho? Soho in the late 1960s was far from the gentrified carbon-copied haven for hipsters that it has become; a puke-inducing hermetically sealed series of ‘unique boutiques’ – like ‘an S & M shop where they sell gimp masks made of Fair-Trade humus’, ‘an ethically-sourced sanctuary for homesick avocadoes’, and a ‘pedal-powered cyber-punk manscaping shop titled Hairy Junk - for tossers called Tarquin & Fenella. This Soho was a grim and grimy cesspit of squalor set in a rabbit’s warren of dark and dingy dives which wreaked of stale beer, salty piddle, steamy plops (of both dog and human varieties) and often semen. And although unemployed for the first five months, I’m sure that far from the top of his preferred list of jobs was to be racially abused by drunken deadbeats staggering from titty-bars with empty pockets, a rancid liver, and their perky little pink Percy pointing the way to a prostitute’s boudoir. Who would? But then again, Soho had a very rich and vibrant community of Maltese ex-pats who worked in bars, clubs and restaurants, who spoke his language, maybe knew his name, and could help out with a job. Living in a small furnished room at 132 Warwick Way in Pimlico for £5 per week, willing to do anything to pay his rent and to set aside a few quid in savings, having first worked at the Taboo strip-club on Dean Street, on the 15th of November 1967, Alfred Saliba managed GiGi’s striptease at 62 Frith Street. Alfred had only been in the job for one week… …when seven words spat would lead to a murder. GiGi’s wasn’t anything special. Far from being on par with Paris’s most infamous burlesque show at the Folies Bergere, GiGi’s was just a run-of-the-mill Soho strip club. Set between an Italian eatery, a gent’s outfitters and sharing half of the ground-floor with a hairdresser’s and a mucky bookshop, it had all the discretion of a drooling man wearing a sandwich board which read ‘I’m here to see titties’. As a thin entrance of just four-foot-wide; to the right were a set of dark steps leading to the basement club below, and to the left - visible to the whole street, regardless of who was walking by, whether a kid, a nun, an incensed prude or a part-time gynaecologist – sat a booth where the pissed-up punters parted with their hard-earned coinage to cop an eye at a jiggling lady’s jugs… and its unsubtle signage. Surrounding the door, with its text in gaudy colours and a cartoon of a naked lady suggestively showing a slice of bum and a sliver of side-boob, GiGi’s proudly declared that - for just 5 shillings (or £6 today) – come and see ‘the most daring show in Soho’ featuring ‘16 lovely ladies from all over the world’. Oh yes, exotic girls from such far-flung places as Grimsby, Dumfries, Swansea and even Croydon in ‘a fully produced lavish spectacle… with continuous shows from 1pm to 1am’. Available from weekday lunchtimes for those whose digestion is ruined if they can’t see a stunner’s chest-sacks as they munch on a sandwich, up until 2am on Saturdays for those who can’t get sleepy unless they’ve gawked at some jiggling norks, and - respectfully – starting later on Sundays, so the reverend doesn’t miss Mass. And if you were like ‘what is this place’, there’s at least ten photos of ladies’ boobies and bottoms. Given its clientele of sad perv’s and seedy drunks, Albert was hired as being reliable, hard-working and a well-built man of 5 foot 10 inches tall and 15 stone in weight, if he had to, he could handle himself. And in a place and an era like this, far too often, he would have to. GiGi’s was one of several Soho strip clubs owned by ‘Big Frank’ Misfud. Weighing as much as an ox, being as surly as a braised beef, and as prone to explosive outbursts as a knackered banger, Frank was leader of ‘The Syndicate’, a criminal gang - who from the 1960s to the 1980s - ran the bulk of Soho’s sex clubs, gambling dens and prostitution rackets, by bribing the Police and engaging in gangland war. 1960s Soho was a volatile place, made worse - as since the expulsion of the Messina brothers, and the deaths of Red Max Kassel & Roger Vernon - rival gangs had picked over the carcass of Soho’s sex trade, and where-as once one-eyed Tony Cauchi had been Big Frank’s partner, now they were bitter enemies. In a campaign of terror between these two over-caffeinated tosspots with high-blood pressure, sore knuckles (owing to them scraping along the floor) and statistically very small penises, Cauchi initiated a series of fire-bombs to take-out his rivals’ clubs, including three which were owned by ‘Big Frank’. In February 1966, a petrol bomb set the America Club ablaze on Greek Street, forcing nine people to jump from the 2nd floor windows, none of whom were gang-members. Three months later, a bomb ripped apart the Luigi Club also on Greek Street, injuring three punters and a dancing girl. On 25th November 1966, a blast at the Keyhole club on Old Compton Street damaged the neighbouring flats. And unironically on the bonfire night of the 5th November 1966, GiGi’s on Frith Street was firebombed. Thankfully no-one was hurt, but with the club being gutted, tensions remained high, as the bombings continued across Peter Street, Rupert Street, Dean Street, Meard Street and the deaths mounted up. On 18th February 1967, Tony Cauchi was arrested. Tried at the Old Bailey, he was convicted of causing malicious damage, unlawfully possessing explosives, and Big Frank told the court that he lived in fear. So, by the time that Alfred Saliba had begun working as the manager of GiGi’s, although it had been renovated, it was barely one year since the bombing and just nine months since Cauchi’s conviction. Nerves were rightfully rattled for any worker at one of ‘Big Frank’s strip-clubs … …only, it wasn’t a firebomb, a gangland feud or a petty spat between two twats of the Maltese Mafia which ignited this fuse of murder, but a grey area of the law which the police weren’t bothered about. Squeezed into a suit jacket, a pair of dark trousers, a blue shirt and a set of suede shoes, as the newbie, Alfred was keen to impress, to do a good job, to enforce the rules, and to take no shit from the slew of drunken deadbeats who would stagger in, looking for boobs, booze and hopefully get a boner, only to get all bent out of shape when they realise it was a con, even though everybody knows that. The swizz was simple. Outside, there were several signs all of varying shapes and sizes; one read ‘entry 5 shillings’, which was true, as entry into the club was 5 shillings; and another read ‘the most daring show in Soho’, which is a slight fudge of the facts, but who’s going to quibble over what’s daring when (as a saddo who probably tugs his pud’ to the bra section of the Freeman’s catalogue) a sexy strumpet with all the fleshy goodness that God provides is dazzling his eager peepers by waggling her danglers. The sign says it all – ‘5 shilling entry’, ’16 lovely ladies’ and ‘striptease’. Of course, once this desperate punter has parted with 5 shillings to gain entry, what they didn’t know was that everything else costs money; whether that’s the over-priced lukewarm piss they dare to call beer, access to the world’s grubbiest loo (still speckled with a plethora of plop from the Jurassic era), and – as they descend the dark grubby stairs to the saddest little room which consists of twenty folding chairs, a spotlight and London’s most lacklustre stripper slowly removing more clothes than probably exists in her whole wardrobe - they either pay more in the hope of seeing an ankle (phwoar), or leave. It preys on two types of shame; the first is to pay to sit alone in a dark room with a hard-on surrounded by six other sad gits sporting boners they daren’t touch while a bored lady swings her milk-makers to music, dreams of a better life than this shit and glares at them with absolute contempt; or two, they walk in, realise they’ve been conned, and stand there like prize prunes with nowhere to go, but out. Legally, the club doesn’t have to dole out a refund, as with the dubious wording and their terms and conditions perched behind the ticket booth where a gruff unsightly doorman growls, they know no-one will read them when they’ve got a raging pocket rocket, and an overwhelming need to see areolas. It’s a con, but it’s not strictly illegal. Thursday 23rd November 1967 was an ordinary night at GiGi’s on Frith Street, as being cold and wet, it wasn’t particularly busy. Inside, under the hot lights, a heady stench of sweat rose as a thin line of slightly soggy men in woollen suits slowly dried, as they tried to get their 15 shillings worth of titties. That night, two new punters to visit this pokey little cesspit of pseudo-sex in Soho’s seedier parts were 46-year-old David Cynfal Williams and his pal 48-year-old Eric Thomas Simmons. As singletons who shared a lodging at Cromwell Road in Hayes End, they often came into town for beers and a bit of fun. Employed as an engineer, having served as a merchant seaman during the war, David lived for a while in New York where it is believed he met Eric. And being a thin man with natty moustache and a crown of hair, he was no bother to anyone – as like his pal – he didn’t get bladdered and wantonly start fights. Eric was a local lad who was born in East Sheen, Richmond on the 21st of October 1919. Being the same height but solidly built, Eric was a salesman for Wigglesworth & Co, a fibre merchants in the city, who specialised the sale of natural fibres, like Sisal, Abaca, Jute and Flax. And with neither man having kids nor being married, although there’s nothing less heterosexual than sitting next to your best pal while your plonker gets hard, why they chose to come to GiGi’s that night would be no real mystery. Only this time, seven words would end in murder… …and it was all because of a pointless rule. David would state “we arrived there about midnight”, and having each paid their 5-shilling entry fee, with nothing mentioned about ‘any additional extras’, the two men descended the stairs. The hallway down to the basement was like a descent into hell, if hell had hired a blind bookie to decorate it with dirty walls, broken tiles and maggot’s nest of spent cigarette butts like a distress call in Morse code. Being a venue about as erotic as off-yoghurt, as they entered the basement, they would have been hit by the funk of spilled beer and men’s stains owing to the spotlights being on for the last eleven hours. And with the floor sticky and the chairs even stickier, although a renovation was made since a petrol-bomb had gutted it, it may have been better to set fire to it again, incinerating the swarms of bacteria. David told the court “we went downstairs and watched a show”, as a girl - possibly performing under the stage name of ‘Fifi from Paris’, who was probably called ‘Mildred from Milford Haven’ – titillated a sweaty line of desperate losers by showing a bit of shoulder (phwoar) or maybe a thigh (cor lummy). For ten minutes they sat, admiring Mildred’s knees, and neither man was harassed… …until Alfred, as the club’s new manager enforced a rule. Alfred would state “I walked over, and said ‘excuse me sir, I make one a member and one a guest’, as unless one of them paid the club’s membership fee, they couldn’t continue watching the show they were already watching. Both said ‘no’. According to Alfred, “the moustache man said to me ‘gimme a smoke’”, which David denied he did, and refusing to pay up, allegedly “he start laughing in my face”. David denied all of this, Alfred denied arguing, and although both men stated that a fight downstairs never occurred, Thomas Town, who was watching the show said “my attention was attracted to a scuffle by the stairs” between David and Alfred, “they were slapping one another. It went on for about two or three minutes, and then they went upstairs”. Which is riveting stuff, I’m sure you’ll agree. By that point, David and Eric had had enough; the striptease was as arousing as cat-litter, the beer was as boozy as a Buddhist’s drinks cabinet, and the customer service about as welcoming as foot fungus. Eric and David were done; they were fed up, they were leaving, they couldn’t be arsed with arguing over a refund, they were just going to head home, grab a takeaway, grumble about it on the train, and then wake up in the morning with a hangover, a few bruises and an anecdote to trot out when needed. But - as a matter of principle and doing a good deed by not wanting others to be conned as they had - seeing four men (George Wilson, ‘Vince’ Thomas, Gordon Jenkinson & ‘Sandy’ Douglas) at the booth about to fork over their 5-shillings each to the doorman, David Williams uttered seven fateful words… … “don’t go in there, it’s a con”. That’s it. Nothing more. Alfred told the court “the two men challenged me. They called me ‘chicken’ so that was it. We started fighting the three of us. I was in the middle. One punch comes towards me and then I start punching with my left, you can see I’ve hurt my hand. I was swinging at them. I hit one of them on the eye”. Only, neither of the men recalled any of that. George Wilson reported “(Eric and David) walked down the street, (Alfred) ran after them and started punching as the two men fell to the ground”. Knocked out in a single punch as he bounced off a parked car, Alfred struck David with a second fist to the face, so by the time he came to, the Police were tending to his injuries and his memory was blank for a bit. But attacked by one heavy punch to the jaw which floored Eric, having fallen to the pavement with a hard thud, it wasn’t much of a fight as neither of the men fought back, after which Alfred then fled. Except for a small bruise to his jaw, Eric didn’t seem to be hurt. George would state “he was just lying there. It appeared to me he was drunk. He moaned as if he was snoring. We move him to the railings”. A policeman arrived within seconds and called an ambulance, but by then, the damage had been done. Arriving at Middlesex Hospital at 12:30am, although Dr Wingate found very few bruises, efforts were made to resuscitate him, “but within minutes, he was dead”. An autopsy would confirm that he had suffered a “subarachnoid haemorrhage to the surface of the brain and the upper spinal cord”, having been knocked unconscious in one punch, the impact with the pavement resulted in his death. (End) Alfred was arrested three hours later at The Golden Egg restaurant on Oxford Street. A little heartlessly having been told ‘tonight at Frith Street, a fight occurred and as a result a man has died’, he asked the two officers who had come to arrest him, ‘can I finish my meal? I’ll only be a minute’ – only he didn’t. Interviewed at West End Central police station, he gave a statement which was partially true according to his view, but with at least ten witnesses to everything that happened, at 4:28pm he was charged. Tried before Mr Justice Lyell on 26th February 1968, having initially been charged with the murder of Eric Simmons and causing GBH to David Williams, later pleading guilty to manslaughter on the grounds of provocation (which was accepted by the court), Alfred Saliba was sentenced to 18 months in prison. Passing sentence, Mr Justice Lyell would conclude “If you conduct your business like this, customers are likely to become dissatisfied. Having got Mr Simmons and Mr Williams out of your club, you ran after them. You are young and strong, and you hit them with real violence in a brutal attack”. And that’s what’s so tragically pointless about this case, as none of it needed to have happened. As the rules that Alfred was enforcing wasn’t his, just as the club wasn’t either. By speaking his mind, David was merely trying to make sure that no-one else was conned like they had been. And as a man who – it was stated – hadn’t said a word to anyone, Eric lost his life over a futile rule, a pointless principle, and a five-shilling striptease. 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 TWENTY-ONE: On Saturday 8th of October 1949, 27-year-old Denis Wilfred Barrett invited 19-year-old Kathleen Mary Rosam back to his lodging at 2 Shirland Road, W9. As a homeless girl who had resorted to prostitution to survive, he was desperate to save her from a fate worse than death... …only, having witnessed unspeakable horrors, what he needed was saving from life.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Shirland Road, off Little Venice, W9; three streets south-west of Timothy Cotter, the 16-year-old killer convicted by his own mother, two streets west of the scattered remains of Hannah Brown, one street north of the suitcase stuffed with Marta Ligman’s body, and a few miles downstream of the torso and the legs that no-one could identify - coming soon to Murder Mile. At the back of the Grand Union Canal sits Charfield Court, a seven-story housing estate from the 1970s. Constructed of 105 unimaginatively identical flats made of glass and concrete, it’s possible it was built as a police initiative to cut crime by making it impossible for any burglar to recall which flat was theirs. Demolished during the 1960s slum clearances, on this spot, at the corner of Formosa Road once stood 2 Shirland Road, a three-storey Victorian lodging house into which a quiet inoffensive man called Denis moved in. Missing some much-needed love in his life, he had fallen for Kathleen; a girl with no home, no life and (what he saw as) no future. But desperate to save her from a fate worse than death… …what she needed saving from was him. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 221: The Saviour. Few who knew him ever thought that Denis was the type of man to commit a murder. Born in the Irish city of Cork on the 12th of October 1922, Denis Wilfred Barrett was one of six siblings to two hard-working parents from a respectable family. Raised as a Roman Catholic, although a little quiet and a little shy, he was a good boy who got on well with everyone, whether sinners or saints. Aged 8, his father died leaving his mother a widow. And although this heartbroken family struggled on in the grip of the Great Depression, together they got through it. So, it’s no surprise that there was nothing in his childhood which forewarned anyone of the crime he would commit. Or maybe it did? As an ordinary boy who was scruffy, a little uncouth but undeniably loving and thoughtful, he would blossom into a ‘tall, powerfully built Irishman’; with hands like shovels, legs like ham-hocks, and a heart as big as an ox, whose pale face and red-cheeks were decorated with a natty little moustache. And keen to see the world and to do his mother proud, aged just 16, he enlisted in the Royal Navy. The date was May 1939, and the world was at war. (sirens) Trained at the Naval School in Sheerness, he suited being a sailor, as whether he was chatting with a captain or a cleaner, “he always made friends with the flotsam and jetsam of the streets”. Beginning his career as a ‘boy’, on the 21st of November 1939, he set sail on the Royal Navy cruisier - HMS Drake. For this boy from Cork, his new life was exciting and dangerous, and qualifying as an electrician, across his career he rose from a lowly boy to an ordinary seaman, all the way up to Leading Torpedo Operator. Only, like so many young boys who had signed up to fight, his teenage years would take a tragic turn. In February 1940, he was transferred onto HMS Hermes, a 600-foot aircraft carrier with 566 crew. Fitted with 20 fighter aircraft, three-inch armour and six 5 and a 1/2-inch guns, it hunted down German blockade runners off the coast of France before progressing to the Persian and East African campaigns. But in April 1942, while preparing for Operation Ironclad, the British invasion of Madagascar, as HMS Hermes berthed in Trincomalee in west Sri Lanka – with repairs underway, the stores being resupplied, and their fighter aircraft assigned elsewhere to another mission – they received a warning. Spotted by an enemy scout plane, a sortie of Japanese warships were steaming their way, to destroy them. Caught off guard, HMS Hermes was a sitting duck - but with no time to rearm its guns, its 11000-tonne bulk limited to a maximum speed of 25 knots, and its air-cover of an RAF squadron of just six Farley Fulmar fighters being too far away, of which they would be outmanned by the impending swarm of 85 Aichi D3A dive bombers and 9 Mitsubishi Zero fighters – only at sea, would they stand a chance. Being left open and exposed, as this wave of firepower later headed north, destroying the Athelstone, the Hollyhock, the SS British Sergeant oil tanker, the SS Norviken and their escorts, by the time that British fighters were seen overhead, the HMS Hermes was sunk. Of its 566 crew, 307 men were lost. Inside its steel hull, some men were ripped-apart by the blast, some burned to death as fuel ignited, some drowned as the ship quickly sunk, and on that day – 9th April 1942 – many died a terrible death. Somehow, Denis survived the explosion, and as he swam as hard as he could as the sinking ship pulled many survivors under, as it sunk taking his friends to their watery graves, this 20-year-old was left clutching to an upturned raft – burned and bleeding - in a vast expanse of oil slicks and dead bodies. Many died a horrible death that day, but it would be worse for those who survived, as across the next five hours - as he swam through a sea of steam, corpses and fiery waves - Denis watched in terror as his pals’ dissected limbs were picked-at by fish, swirling sharks sought a free feast of human flesh, and – unwilling to take any prisoners – those who hadn’t drowned were machine-gunned from the air. Along with the other survivors, Denis was picked up by the hospital ship Vita… …only his nightmare had just begun. With this being war, he was given no time to grieve or get over his trauma, as being told ‘to buck up or get out’, the very next day, he was assigned to the crew of HMS Drake, a heavily armoured monitor ship. But that experience had changed Denis; gone was the quiet burly man, replaced by a terrified boy whose nights were spent gripped with sweats, terrors and horrifying dreams of a swirling red sea. No longer the seaman he once was, he was bounced from HMS Drake to HMS Defiance to HMS Drake IV, but by August 1943 - owing to what they described as his “peculiar behaviour” – he was put ashore. Posted to the Mediterranean island of Sicily, Denis wasn’t there for rest and recuperation, as assigned to LST 425 (a landing ship tank), with a rifle in hand, his superiors sent him from one horror to another, as part of the invasion of Sicily. Codenamed Operation Husky, it was one of the most brutal land battles of World War II, into which Denis fought a series of street-fights, as the walls ran red with blood. After six weeks, the Allies had stolen this strategically vital island from Fascist Italy and Nazi Germany, but the day that Sicily was won, being physically exhausted and mentally spent, Denis broke down. With an officer spotting his ‘strange behaviour’, Denis was sent to B Base Psychiatric Centre at the 54th General hospital. Described as “self-absorbed and emotionally dull”, when they examined him, they found two scars, where – twice in the last few weeks – he had attempted to stab himself in the heart. “Recommended for return to the UK for further observation”, Denis was shipped back to England and admitted to Barrow Gurney Naval Hospital in Bristol, where he said he heard voices, saw visions, and his movements and thought processes were so slow, that at times, doctors stated “he was like statue”. Believing that he was suffering from “possible schizophrenia” rather than the trauma of war, deemed unfit for naval service, on the 9th February 1944, he was discharged and given half his military pension. As he was no longer the Navy’s concern, he tried to live as normal life as possible… Released from hospital on the 10th of March 1944, he returned to Cork and to his family, far away from the cacophony of blitz bombs and V1 rockets which riddled most Allied cities. As a quailed electrician, he got his union papers and coped with his trauma by working regular hours and making a good living. Given his history, it’s remarkable that Denis didn’t go off the rails, but then again, he was never bad or mad, he was just shy and a quiet. Sometimes described as “a little distant”, he was never violent, he didn’t have a criminal record, and apart from frequent bouts of depression, he was doing well. One of the reasons, it is said, was that he had found love. How they met he never divulged, but being as the daughter of a fellow electrician, it’s likely that Denis met Elizabeth Millard known as ‘Bette’ at one of the businesses in Cork he either worked for, or at. As a small-featured petite blonde with a sweet smile and quirky mannerisms, being smitten from day one he quickly married her and both moving to Gillingham in Kent, they married on the 2nd January 1946. Life was good; he was married, employed, and they soon had two children; Ingrid age 3 and Noel age 2, and kept busy as an electrician at Royal Victoria Docks, soon the horrors of his past were fading. Only, the good times were coming to an end, as Denis’ trauma crept back in. In February 1946, he was sacked from the dockyard as his workmanship wasn’t up to standard. A few short-term jobs followed, but he was discharged for bad timekeeping. And in January 1949, with their marriage in tatters as he sunk deeper in despair, his beloved Bette moved back to Cork taking the kids. Separating amicably in June 1949, although he struggled to retain his job as a kitchen porter in London, he tried to pay her £3 per week as agreed, but only able to give her £1, their relationship soon soured. On the 18th September 1949, 27-year-old Denis moved into a small bed-sitting room on the first floor of 2 Shirland Road in Maida Vale. Working nights as a kitchen porter at J Lyons & Co in Marble Arch, the landlady Mrs Herta Pusztai said he was “quiet and kept to himself”, he never made a mess, and as a devoted father who spoke lovingly of his wife, he sent what he could to his family back in Ireland. Only, his shy ways and statue-like stillness hid not only his trauma, but a deep pain in his heart. Often sat alone, as he stared at the bare walls, he began to drink. At night, when the terror returned and the sight of burning bodies haunted his dreams, he had no-one to cuddle him to sleep. And as those dark thoughts loomed, once he told his brother Edward “I often think of falling in front of tube trains”. Denis was done, as in his diary he would scrawl “our anniversary Bette. This was all for you”. In another entry he would leave his worldly goods to his loved ones. And in a third “My love as always to Bette”. With nothing left, no-one would come to Denis’ rescue… … but it was then that he found Kathleen. Born on the 28th September 1930 in the Hertfordshire town of Bushey, Kathleen Mary Rosam had lived with her mother Kathleen and her stepfather John, since her father’s death when she was only three. Raised with her brother at 5 Bushey Hall Farm Cottages, she was described as “a healthy girl, who was never in trouble”. Since leaving school, she’d worked at a printing factory, she’d done her bit for King & Country having joined the Land Army, she had just started work at a biscuit factory in Watford, and although “a steady girl who liked her home life but didn’t go out much”, suddenly, she went missing. Dressed in a black coat, a flower-pattered dress and wedge-shaped shoes, on the morning of the 17th of September 1949 - for no known reason what-so-ever - this 19-year-old vanished from her home… …three weeks later, she would be dead. On Tuesday 4th October, Denis met Kathleen, we know this as he wrote it in his diary – “met Kathleen”. At roughly midnight, on Randolph Avenue, two streets from his lodging, the two got chatting. Whether he was looking for a prostitute is unknown, but she said she was ‘on the game’ and her price was £1. Instantly, he liked her, as although just 19-years-old, it was who she reminded him off which attracted him most. As being a small-featured petite blonde with a sweet smile and quirky mannerisms, he’d later tell the prison psychiatrist “the resemblance between my wife and Kathleen was remarkable”. And although Bette was out of his life, she never out of his thoughts. That night, having had a delightful walk in Paddington Park, Denis would admit “I told her I didn’t have much money. She asked me if I could take her to my lodgings. I said I could, and at about 1am we got to 2 Shirland Road… she stayed the night with me in my room and she did not ask me to pay her”. Maybe she forget, maybe she pitied him, or maybe (being homeless) she needed a place to stay? Either way, although brief, their relationship was caring and friendly, as Kathleen saw a softness within this burly man, and within her, he saw the woman he had always loved, but could no longer be with. Denis would state “we left my room at about 2pm on the Wednesday, we went and had a drink, and then I took her to a chemist in Kilburn High Road to have her eye seen to”. Sporting a sore but fading black eye - possibly at the hands of a punter who wasn’t as gentle and caring as Denis – “I bought her an eye shade. I then took her up Edgware Road and we had a good feed and then went to the pictures”. As far as we know, a nice time was had by both – “after that we went to a couple of pubs. She told me she had to go and see a pal, and I promised to meet her about midnight in a pub on the Clifton Road”. There was no denying that he liked her, he maybe loved her, or at least the woman she reminded him of, “but I waited in there, and around the streets till about two in the morning, but she did not return”. In his diary, he would write for that night: “she went to see her friend and never returned. Stayed out until 2am, to try and find her. Impossible!”. And being desperate to see her, over the next two days – Thursday 6th and Friday 7th – he wrote three words in his diary “searching for her”, nothing more. Knowing her for just four days, it wasn’t until the fifth day that Denis tried to save her… …ironically, from a ‘fate worse than death’. It’s uncertain how many hours he waited and how many streets he searched, but on Saturday 8th, he found her. We know that, as he wrote it in his diary: “found her Sat’ night 9pm”. Being on Clifton Road, her usual patch, although “she was getting off and fixing up business… she agreed to go out with me”. It was like it was before, as they strolled hand-in-hand through Hyde Park and went to a café for a cup of tea; her a petite little thing in a bright yellow dress like a canary, him in a dark blue suit like a cat. Their time together was only brief, but as Denis would state “during this time I had known Kathleen, I had become somewhat attached to her and had suggested to her that she should come off the game”. She was only young, she was only little, and she had her whole life ahead of her: “I urged her to give up the game”, he told the prison psychiatrist, “I thought of her future, her life as a prostitute” - disease, alcoholism, degradation and danger - “but she refused to”. So it’s kind of ironic that, having wanted to save her from a life lived so shamefully, at roughly 1am, they returned to his lodging… and had sex. The house was quiet, and with the rules being ‘no guests allowed’, they did the dirty silently. A short while afterwards, as they lay in his bed, the drab chintz curtains closed and the door locked, curled-up together in each other’s arms, “I kissed her, and she then went off to sleep. I lay thinking of different things. I felt pity for the girl, and I realised what she would become if she continued in her way of life. I knew I couldn’t have her living with me… and I thought of my wife. Then I went to sleep”. Whether this is true, only he would know, but suddenly his mood would change. In one retelling, they were both awake: “She didn’t want to come off the game so I thought it would be better if she was out of it altogether, so I suddenly took hold of her throat with my hand and we struggled. We fell off the bed together and I had hold of her throat all the time until she was dead”. In another, he awoke and found himself in a fit of anger: “The next thing I recall I was on the floor. I asked the girl what we were doing, she did not answer. I cannot say for certain, but I believe my hands were at her throat. I shook her. I felt her heart and her pulse, but her face was blue… she was dead”. Asked in court “did you intend to harm this girl?”, Denis replied “no, I only intended to help her”. In a fit of panic, “I tried to put her in the cupboard, but couldn’t”, as although he was only small, the girl didn’t fit, “so I put her back on the bed and covered her up with the bedclothes”, as if by making her corpse more comfortable, that maybe God would forgive him. But would he? For many hours there she lay. “Several times I knelt down and prayed. And when the morning came, I left the house”. In his diary, Denis wrote “Sunday 9th October, 2:30am. Kathleen died”. Far from being a crazed killer, it was what happened next which best sums up Denis, as feeling terrible (not just having taken a young girl’s life but) having broken the house rules: “I went downstairs and spoke to the landlady and told her I was sorry, I had broken her rules by bringing a girl into my room”. It’s unlikely he had a plan of what to do, as for the next few hours he would wander the streets in a daze, and keen not to be discovered “I told her, I’m going out for ten minutes to get a taxi and we’re leaving. Don’t go into the room. Don’t disturb the lady she is undressing”, which she agreed to do. But as minutes turned into hours, the landlady became concerned. Herta would state “at 12:25pm, I knocked, went in, and saw a woman with long fair hair lying in the bed, fully covered by the bedclothes. I thought she was asleep, so I decided not to wake her”. And there the corpse remained, cold and still. By 4pm, although usually placid, Denis was fit to burst with emotion. Visiting his brother Edward, he knew he had no choice but to admit the truth, stating “I want to tell you something… I’ve done a girl in”. His brother didn’t believe him, who would, and so giving him his diary, Denis told him everything. At 11:30pm, Denis telephoned Scotland Yard, and as directed, he returned to 2 Shirland Road… …but by then, it was too late, as Kathleen had already been found. At 11:45pm, as Denis approached his lodgings, Inspector Sercombe & Chief Inspector Berkell exited, asking “are you Denis Barrett?”, he replied “yes, I shan’t run away…”, and stating “I did it. Oh yes, I admit it”, having been cautioned, he’d state “I’ve got a long story to tell you. It starts off with my wife”. Found at 4pm by the landlady, the scene was remarkably ordinary; her clothes on the armchair suggested that she had undressed herself, her handbag undisturbed implied she hadn’t been robbed, and a small black suitcase full of her possessions gave the impression of a lost girl with nowhere to go. Her injuries were equally as unremarkable; an old bruise to her left eye (which Denis insisted “I had nothing to do with”), and abrasions to her neck matching his fingers as he had strangled her to death. Giving a full and frank statement to the detectives at Harrow Road police station, knowing he had hurt so many, the last thing Denis wrote in his diary was this: “Dear mum. Please forgive me. Denis”. (End) Received at Brixton Prison, Denis was assessed by the prison psychiatrist, and told a story of the life of an ordinary boy; a little shy and a little quiet, who had done his bit to serve his country and to make his mother proud, but – amidst a sea of blood and fire - had witnessed some unspeakable horrors. But mostly, he spoke of the wife he had loved, he had lost, and hoped - one day - to rekindle his love with. Admitting to bouts of depression, but nothing more, Denis was declared fit to stand trial. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 24th and 25th November 1949, against their advice, he refused to allow his solicitors to use the defence of insanity, as he felt he was sane, even though if the unmistakable evidence were to find him guilty, that would have guaranteed that he would be sentenced to death. With Dr Rowland Hill of the West End Hospital for Nervous Diseases stating that “he was suffering a form of schizophrenia”, the decision was no longer his, and pleading ‘not guilty’, it was ruled that at the time of the murder, “by reason of a defect of reason, he was not responsible for what he did”. Retiring for 30mins, the jury returned with a verdict and Mr Justice Cassels declared that Denis Barrett was guilty of murder by insanity. Later detained at Broadmoor Psychiatric Prison, his fate is unknown. Denis Barrett was a troubled man who sought to save girl from a fate worse than death… …only, having witnessed unspeakable horrors, what he needed was saving from life. 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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