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Full Transcript - Episode #16 - Richard Rhodes Henley; the Seamen, the Semen and the murder of the Porn Peddler
INTRO: Thank you for downloading episode fifteen of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. Well, the end of January is almost upon us, and those New Year’s resolutions we’d promised to stick to are already a distant memory, as our goal to eat, drink and smoke less died a few days after we’d said them and was replaced in our gobs by either a pie, a pint or a pipe. And yet, as much as we deny that we’ve got a problem, that we need a fix, or that we’re struggling with an addiction, being hooked on food, booze, fags and even true-crime podcasts, is surely not as bad being a smack or crack head, am I right? I mean, would you be willing to kill someone to satisfy your addiction? You may think you wouldn’t, but I’m sure that Richard Rhodes Henley, the culprit in this week’s episode of Murder Mile true-crime podcast must have thought the same.
So, as you press play on this – your twenty-fifth podcast of the day, with a ciggie in one hand, a cake in your mouth and another quadruple espresso on the go – I just wanted to say stay tuned to the end of the episode to hear more about your next obsession, Murder Mile’s recommended podcast of the week, the fabulous Dark Poutine, thank you for listening and enjoy the episode. Mwah-haa-haa-haa. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within one square mile of the West End. Today’s episode is about the senseless murder of “Big Alan”; the burly purveyor of illicit pornography on Dean Street, who was robbed by Richard Rhodes Henley, a man so hopelessly addicted to his all-consuming need to masturbate over mucky magazines, that it would drive him to kill. Murder Mile contains bizarre, lewd and often rude descriptions which may cause a mild upset in those who are easily offended, as well as realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 16: Richard Rhodes Henley: the Seamen, the Semen and the Porn Peddler Today, I’m on Dean Street, roughly three hundred feet north of Old Compton Street and three hundred feet south of Oxford Street, in a part of Soho so heavily renovated, scrubbed and sanitised, that much of Soho’s original but admittedly seedy character has been erased, as the property prudes move in and any hint of originality moves out. In fact, the only culture left in this part of Dean Street is the famous Soho Theatre immediately behind me, where every night a wealth of right-on wankers dressed in beards, boots and feather boas, waffle-on about how literally yards from here Karl Marx wrote the Communist manifesto (which they profess to know the finer points of, and yet have never actually read), whilst starving having refused to eat the sushi at Wagamammas as they’re allergic to fish, intolerant to rice and are too full of their own shit, and are off to watch a dull arty play about one-legged Armenian strippers with AIDs, knowing it’ll be dross, but hoping – besides being culturally enriching – it’ll either have boobs, bums or a cock in it. Today, 82 Dean Street has been entirely demolished and replaced with a yucky modern monstrosity. And yet, the area around 82 Dean Street is a far cry from the seedy street full of sex-pests that it once was; being the bastion for the closet pervert and the chronic masturbator, as a drove of dirty old men in flashing macks stifle boners as they trawl the mucky book shops in search of tits, tights and tassels. One of these men in search of a triple X thrill was so addicted to his need to spill his seed, that it would consume his life and end another. His name was Richard Rhodes Henley. (INTERSTITIAL) On Wednesday 24th October 1956, HMCS Iroquois, a tribal class destroyer under the command of the Canadian Navy berthed in Southampton Dock on the English coast, after fourteen months on patrol in the Atlantic, the Mediterranean Sea, the Red Sea and hostile waters off Korea’s post-war peninsula. Needing six days to resupply, refuel and repair before returning to its home port in Halifax (Canada), half of the ship’s crew were given three days leave. And as a military vessel of mostly men who’d been cramped together in an oversized tin-can for just over a year with no privacy, no space and no outlet for their passions; the second the gangplank was lowered, with a whoop and a cheer, the dock was splashed in a sea of white as great groups of over-excitable seamen, set-out in search of girls. Pulling away from the pack, cutting quite a solitary figure as he limped along on his crutches, his left foot lame having twisted it just a few days earlier, was 26 year old Leading Seaman Richard Rhodes Henley. And although he was dressed like the others in his Navy issue uniform of black shoes, dark woollen jersey, a round cap and black bell-bottom trousers, he looked a little odd as his hero’s clothes badly hung off this tall, thin and gangly man with a small feminine mouth and thick lensed glasses. And yet, described by his commanding officer as a cook of exemplary character whose conduct on-board was always first class, Henley’s impressive work ethic wasn’t just in a deep-rooted desire for praise, promotion and a need to blend in… but to distract him from his dirty addiction. Henley was a masturbator, a chronic masturbator, who dove into work to keep his mind on his job and his hands out of his pants, as the second he wasn’t whipping an egg-white, fluffing a pancake batter or frothing a custard to a creamy head, his dirty desire would take over and he’d have to dive into the communal Navy toilet (also known as the head) for a five-knuckle shuffle. Needing to masturbate on an almost hourly basis, Henley’s sexual addiction was out of control and impossible to sustain on a cramped ship, at sea, with not a single second to himself. And so the second he disembarked, Henley set off on the first train to London and headed to Soho. Eleven years after the end of World War Two, with rationing over, prosperity blossoming and the good times having returned, London’s West End was the place to be to. As with every bar buzzing, every club thumping, every dance-hall fit-to-burst and finally the dark-lit streets of Soho being bathed once again by the bright lights of Piccadilly Circus, with just three day’s leave, every sailor hit the West End hoping to soak up as much vice as possible, whether girls, booze or gambling. But being a man with so little money and so many debts, Henley never gambled. As a devour Catholic with a wife back home, Henley never visited brothels. And as a drinker, even though he drank, he always drank alone. But these were not his vices, as his drug of choice was pornography. During his three day’s leave in London, Henley did very little else except trawl the mucky book shops in search of sexy magazines, but his quest was fruitless. As even though Soho was London’s sex shop central, Henley wasn’t interested in those mildly titillating top-shelf titles where scantily-clad ladies display an inch of an ankle, a bit of a boob or (if you were really lucky) a flash of a fanny fluff, but having been a chronic masturbator since he was twelve, Henley’s addiction was out of control, and with a single sexy photo only able to satisfy him for two or three self-love sessions before boredom would creep in, and Henley would need something harder. On Friday 26th October, having purchased twenty-five pornographic photos from a sex-shop just a few streets away in Piccadilly, and knowing this was barely enough filth to sustain his sexual appetite for a week, Henley asked the owner if he knew of any mucky book shops that sold harder porn, which was kept off the shelves and out of sight, as the porn was of such a strong nature, it was illegal. The store Henley was directed towards was at 82 Dean Street, it was ran by Alan Robinson (INTERSTITIAL). Although he was born John Alan Dixon Robinson, “Big Alan” as he was known was a thirty-six year old man of an impressive stature, as being over six feet tall and weighing seventeen stone with unflinching eyes and a bear-like beard, and a no-nonsense World War Two veteran with the Royal Fusiliers, his imposing size and gruff demeanour was perfect for his occupation as the manager of a Soho sex-shop, a job that required him to deal with all manner of unsavoury characters such as drunks, perverts, weirdos, conmen and gangsters. Situated at 82 Dean Street, Big Alan’s Soho sex-shop was the epitome of discretion, as (unlike most jazz-mag joints) there was no frosted glass and no neon signs flashing a “triple x”. Instead it was a simple white plaster façade with a number but no name; just the words “books and magazines” emblazoned on the walls and above the dark wooden door. And in the windows which were protected by black wrought-iron railings were displayed a deceptive collection of erotic novels, lurid fiction and dubious history books about naked African tribes, giving the illusion (to anyone who wasn’t “in the know”) that this was just a very normal book shop. That evening, just before closing time, as the last of the book-shop’s customers were shuffling out, in walked a tall slim bespectacled sailor replete with black bell-bottomed trousers and the naval epaulets of a Leading Seamen who was limping on a pair of crutches. And although a little shy and socially awkward, he seemed polite, quiet and harmless. Their discussion was cordial and brief; Henley asked if Big Alan had any hard-core films to sell, he had and offered him three 16 millimetre stag-films for thirty five pounds each, Henley agreed and – even though, in today’s money, that adds up to a whopping one thousand eight hundred pounds for three ten minute skin-flicks – Henley promised he’d return with the money the next day. But Henley had no intention of buying them, as he had no money, but what he did have was an all-consuming need for harder and stronger porn, and he would do anything to get it. Spending that Friday evening at the Union Jack Club in Lambeth (South London), an exclusive club for members of the armed forces, Henley sat alone, sunk back a few whiskeys, contemplated his rapid descent into a life of crime and later drunkenly stumbled back to the Waverly Hotel (in Bloomsbury), where he unpacked his kit-bag inside which he’d hidden a 9 millimetre German Luger pistol. Born in Creston in Canada, a small town on the south-eastern side of British Columbia, close to the US border, Richard Rhodes Henley was an only child, conceived in illegitimacy and whose very existence was blamed for the failure of his father’s marriage. Regularly beaten by his abusive alcoholic father, Henley’s childhood was spent either running away from home or being put into foster-care. And the more he drank, the more isolated he’d become, trapped in a solitary friendless world, never once having a loving mentor nor role-model to guide him on the tricky issues of life, love or sex. Aged just twelve years old, it was during those hormonally difficult and emotionally sensitive years as his body grew and puberty bloomed that Henley’s father caught his son masturbating - a natural act that almost all curious boy’s engage in, which is easily pacified by calmly discussing the facts of life – but that is exactly what his father should have, but didn’t do. Henley was abused. Henley was beaten. Henley was whipped. And for the following year, twelve year old Richard Rhodes Henley would spend every night, lying in bed, his wrists tightly shackled and bound to a rough leather harness secured around his waist. A barbaric device which was meant to stop this wicked boy from pleasuring himself and would cure him of this seedy affliction… but it backfired spectacularly and turned a common childhood habit (that he may have grown out of) into a dark, alluring and rebellious addiction. In 1947, aged 17, Henley ran away from home for the final time. In 1948, aged 18, he enlisted in the Canadian Navy to see the world and escape his father forever. In 1950, aged 20, as a devout Roman Catholic he hastily married his first girlfriend having – like his father before him - conceived an unplanned child out of wedlock; and as the love dried-up, the sex stopped and the marital bed grew cold, Henley turned to his one true-love – masturbation. By 1956, having docked in Southampton, Richard Rhodes Henley was a married man, with a five year old son, a blossoming naval career and financial responsibilities. In truth, he wasn’t a bad man; he wasn’t a drunk or a druggie; he was never physically, sexually or verbally abusive; he had no STIs, STDs nor any major health issues; and unusually he wasn’t a peeper, a flasher, a groper, a stalker or a sex-pest. In fact, prior to this moment, he had never committed a criminal act; but with his drug of choice being pornography, his addiction had consumed his life, his thoughts, his money and his even actions, and – now being hopelessly broke - he would do anything to get his fix. On the morning of Saturday 27th October 1956 at the ungodly hour of six thirty AM, Richard Rhodes Henley was witnessed pacing impatiently on his crutches outside of Big Al’s book-shop on 82 Dean Street. And although his intention was to commit an armed robbery, he didn’t hide his face and didn’t have a disguise, instead he wore his full Naval uniform complete with cap, boots and bell-bottoms. At nine-thirty AM, having nervously paced and waited outside for more than three hours, the book-shop finally opened, but it wasn’t the terrifyingly imposing frame of Big Al who unlocked the dark wooden door; it was his younger smaller assistant Robert Edward Clemment, also known as “Bob”. Wracked with nerves and shaking with tension, Henley must have thought that fate was smiling upon him, as - even though in his pocket he’d stashed the 9 millimetre German Lugar pistol loaded with eight bullets in the mag’ and one in the chamber – with the street being dead, the shop being empty and Bob being all alone, the robbery would be quick, no-one would get hurt and Henley could catch the next train back to Southampton Dock, before his ship departed, making a slick robbery followed by the perfect getaway. But it was not to be. As with Bob claiming to know nothing about any pornographic films which his boss had apparently stashed in the backroom (a room he had never used as it was practically empty), Bob told Henley to return when Big Alan was back, at 12pm, another two and a half hours later. For two and a half hours, Henley hobbled along the streets of Soho, nervously biting his lip, as with his three days leave almost over, and his orders to return to his ship at Southampton Dock by 11am at the very latest, torn between risking his career and his need for harder porn, his addiction won and Henley sauntered into the Rose & Crown tavern, twenty feet away, on corner of St Anne’s Court for a large slug of “Dutch courage” and – being so nervous – he knocked back 2oz or 300ml of whiskey. This is of course if you believe Henley’s confession, as Bob denied ever opening the shop, having keys, meeting Henley, or ever handling any illegal pornographic films (a claim which absolves him of this crime), and yet, although Henley claimed he was drunk at the time of the murder, he was never witnessed in the Rose & Crown pub that morning by either the customers or the landlord, he did not appear drunk, and (when checked by the police doctor) Henley had no alcohol in his system. Anyway… At 12pm, with Henley (supposedly) being inebriated, he returned to the mucky book shop at 82 Dean Street, which consisted of a single room measuring barely twenty feet wide by twenty feet deep, with every inch of wall-space riddled with trashy paperbacks, as a small smattering of sheepish-looking customers leafed through the lurid novels whilst shuffling nearer to the soft-core pornographic magazines which hung above the shop’s serving hatch, behind which stood Bob and Alan. With Henley being instantly recognisable in his sailor’s suit, Big Al grabbed his keys and discretely ushered him into the locked backroom behind the shop, where they privately talked in hushed tones. The backroom was bare, except for an empty fireplace, a single wicker chair (oddly placed in the centre of the room, which neither man sat in) and a waist-high wooden cabinet from which Alan pulled three metal tins of 16 millimetre film. With almost two thousand pounds worth of hard-core films in his hands, a loaded Lugar in his pocket and this very private room secured by a lockable door, a successful end to Henley’s pornography heist was in sight… but his need for newer, harder and more explicit images was so overpowering, that with greed having taken over, Henley wanted more. Thinking he must have met his dream customer and that this was his lucky day, Big Al led Henley back into the half-full shop, through the partitioned area behind which stood Bob and also Sidney Bayard, the shop’s accountant, and ushered him into Alan’s office, where once again, with greater discretion and even quieter voices, Big Alan and Henley finally shook hands on a price. For three 16 millimetre films and a box containing seven hundred and eighty four pornographic photos, Henley would pay two hundred and sixty-four pounds, which is today’s money is over four and a half thousand pounds. A price which (as we know) Henley had no plan to pay. Waiting until Alan had wrapped up the films and the photos into two discretely packaged parcels of brown paper, Henley gave his excuse that he had his money hidden about his person and didn’t want to reveal it in the shop, and seeing a large bulge in his jacket, Big Al fatefully guided Henley and the parcels back to the privacy of the locked backroom. The second the door was opened, Henley pulled out his pistol and aimed the barrel between Alan’s eyes, but with surprisingly sharp reflexes which belied his imposing size, Alan got the jump on Henley, slammed the backroom door in his face, and believing his armed robbery was a success, Henley fled down the dusty passageway, towards the dark wooden door, but it was all a ruse. There was no way that Alan was ever going to part with almost five thousand pounds worth of illegal pornographic stock, and before Henley had reached the front door, he turned to see the six-foot one, seventeen stone bulk of Big Alan bearing down on him, with fists clenched and anger in his eyes, and feeling truly afraid, Henley panicked and pulled the trigger. And yet, as Alan lay there, dying on the floor, the events which followed it are almost comical… …terrified at what his addiction had driven him to do, as Henley hopelessly limped into Dean Street, clutching his stolen parcels of porn but having left his crutches behind, Bob and Sidney chased the hobbling armed robber at an impressively slow speed, as with Bob having a gammy leg and the rather rotund Sidney managing little more than a quick waddle, they shouted “stop that man, he’s shot somebody” as Henley limped down St Anne’s Court, dropping both parcels in the process. Ignoring the commotion, a kind lady stopped to help the disabled Henley pick-up his scattered porn parcels, and even though Bob and Sidney, who were limping and waddling behind him in a half-speed pursuit called out to a passing taxi-driver on Wardour Street shouting “Don’t take that sailor, he’s shot a man”, with the cabbie Maurice Gould thinking they were drunken nutters, he picked up Henley and headed in his chosen direction of Waterloo Station, to get his train back to Southampton Dock. Henley had almost got away… …but sensing that something was up, Gould drove Henley to Trenchard House, a local police section house one street away on Broadwick Street, where the taxi-driver handed the clearly bewildered, shaking and ghostly white Canadian sailor over to Police Constable Alan Cole. But did Henley confess to his crime? No, of course he didn’t. He gave the police a total cock and bull story about how he’d been beaten up by a Teddy Boy who had stolen his crutches, his bullshit story of which ended with Henley dragging the incredulous PC on a wild goose chase through the streets of Soho in search of this mysterious (and entirely fictional) assailant, all whilst hiding a 9 millimetre Lugar pistol on his pocket and clutching almost five grands worth of highly illegal pornography under his arm. Moments later, as he neared Dean Street, Henley was arrested. Thirty minutes later, John Alan Dixon Robinson also known as Big Alan, died of his injuries at Charing Cross Hospital. And although this single bullet had passed through his bowel, his liver and his back, causing massive internal bleeding, Alan ultimately died of shock. Upon his arrest at West End Central police station, Henley gave a full confession, freely admitting he had committed an armed robbery to fuel his addiction to hard-core pornography and masturbation. He was searched, and amongst his possessions they found a £10 note, 8 shillings in silver and 7 ½ pence in copper, one Canadian dollar, a return ticket to Southampton, a Navy leave pass, an organ donor card, a liquor permit, 10 pornographic photographs, plus another 25 indecent images, plus two parcels containing three 16 millimetre hard-core films, numerous mucky books and magazines, and another seven hundred and eighty four illicit photos, as well as a bottle of liniment, which although it is used as a pain relief lotion also causes a tingling sensation in the more sensitive parts of the body. Hence, it was here, that Henley finally admitted that he had a problem. On 5th December 1956, at the Old Bailey, Richard Rhodes Henley was declared mentally fit to stand trail for murder - a charge which normally warrants a sentence of life in prison, but with Henley having taken a life in pursuit of a robbery – he was found guilty of all charges and sentenced to death. But not wishing to cause a major diplomatic incident between the two allies by having a Canadian soldier executed on British soil, the Home Secretary (Mr Gwillam Lloyd George) ordered a reprieve of the case, and within days Henley’s death sentence had been commuted from execution to the most lenient term possible, just fifteen years in prison. Richard Rhodes Henley was sent to HMP Parkhurst, a brutal Victorian maximum security prison on the Isle of Wight; a cold and lonely two-mile island off the English coast, where – as a murderer, he wasn’t permitted to work in the kitchens – so instead he’d stay in his cell, 23 hours a day, 7 days a week, for 15 long years, lying on his bed; alone with nothing but his dirty thoughts, his eager penis and his fumbling hands. And with no doctors to treat his addiction, no psychiatrists to cure his affliction and no drugs to dampen his sexual urges, only a lot of time and too much boredom, on an undisclosed day in the early 1970’s, having served his sentence and (I’m sure) having learned his lesson, Richard Rhodes Henley was released from prison, he boarded a boat and returned to his home country of Canada. And so, to Murder Mile’s Canadian listeners, I just wanted to say “good night and sleep well”. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for listening to Murder Mile. Each week, in this section, I’ll be proudly introducing you to a new true-crime podcast which I love and want to share with you. This week’s treat is the fabulous Dark Poutine hosted by the brilliant Mike and Scott, who have an amazingly warm chemistry together, a passion for their subject and a genuine compassion for the victims as they delve into the depths of Canada’s dark and murky past. It’s one of my go-to podcasts, even if it has put me off ever going to Canada. Check them out. (PLAY PROMO) Don’t forget to check out my blog for more photos, videos and maps surrounding this case and all other episodes, by going to my website – murdermiletours.com / blog, or check out the Murder Mile podcast on Facebook, Twitter and Pinterest. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Next week’s episode is… David Martin: The Baffling Case of the Transsexual Houdini. Thank you and sleep well.
Sources:
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London” and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
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