Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast #3 - The Bedfordbury Baby Batterer

A panoramic view of Bedfordbury (to the left is Chandos Place, to the right is New Row).

Welcome to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous (and often forgotten) murder cases, set within one square mile of the West End. 

• 30 minute weekly true-crime podcast - EVERY THURSDAY
  
• 300+ untold or often forgotten true murders
  
• Based on Soho's FIVE STAR rated Murder Mile Walks
• Research collected from original and first-hand sources
• Authentic sounds recorded from the location itself
• An audio guided walk... all from the comfort of your home

To accompany your audio guided walk, what follows is a series of photos, videos and maps, so that no matter where you are listening to this podcast, you'll feel like you're actually there. 

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EPISODE THREE

Episode Three: The Bedfordbury Baby-Batterer is one of the West End’s least known, most shocking and brutal murder cases, which is also one of the saddest, and although there’s no mystery over who killed who, this needlessly cruel death will make you question who the victim (or victims) actually were. 

• Date: Saturday 5th September 1901
• Location: 3 Bedfordbury, Covent Garden, WC2
• Victims: 1 (Thomas James Mills)
• Culprit: James John Richardson 

CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via i-Tunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it now by clicking the green PLAY button on the embedded media player below. All transcribed versions are available in "Podcast Transcripts" (right).

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THE LOCATION

Bedfordbury is a small side-street in the borough of St Martin's-in-the-Fields, right between Covent Garden market, The Strand, Charing Cross Road and Trafalgar Square, and yet it's one of those street even locals rarely walks down as it has a decidedly gloomy feel about it. 

Using the interactive Murder Map, you can find every murder location from each episode, which are all marked with a multi-coloured dots, Bedfordbury is the purple dot on the bottom / right. Simply click on the map to zoom in and scroll left/right. 

This photo shows Bedfordbury as it looks today; barely a three minute walk from Covent Garden, it's quiet, peaceful and clean, with many of the houses now selling for £2-4 million. And yet, during 1901 when this episode takes place, it was widely regarded as one of the worst slums in Victorian London. 

This slideshow features: 
#1 - 3 Bedfordbury as it looks today
#2 - 23 Bedfordbury, is how no3 would have looked before it was demolished
#3 - Goodwin's Court off Bedfordbury, is an example of a typically thin alley between rows of slum houses (although Brydges Place is barely 16 inches wide)

Sadly there are no known photos of James John Richardson, Thomas James Mills or Lavinia Mills, as photography was luxury in that era. .

What I have included is a really good documentary about Workhouses and how hard life was for people (whether adults, children and even babies) who were sent to live at the workhouse.

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Ep3 - The Baby Batterer

INTRO:  Thank you for downloading episode three of the Murder Mile true-crime podcast. For your enjoyment, each episode has its own dedicated webpage as well as an interactive murder map, available via my website murder mile tours.com / podcast. Warning: this episode contains graphic descriptions of murder and very realistic sound effects, some of which you may find shocking. Thank you. Enjoy the episode.

SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk of London’s most notorious (and often forgotten) murder cases, all set within one square mile of the West End.

Today’s episode is a guided walk of one of the West End’s most shocking murder cases, which is also one of the saddest, and although there’s no mystery over who killed who, this needlessly cruel death will make you question who the victim (or victims) actually were.

Murder Mile contains vivid descriptions which may not be suitable for those of a sensitive disposition, as well as photos, videos and maps which accompany this series, so that no matter where you’re listening 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 3: The Bedfordbury Baby Batterer.

Today I’m standing on a slightly forgotten little side-street called Bedfordbury, WC2, in the parish of St Martin-in-the-Fields, right by the very epicentre of the West End’s tourist district; with Covent Garden to the north, Trafalgar Square to the south, Soho to the West and The Strand to the east. And regardless whether it’s day or night, this area bristles with a throng of tourists, taxis and transparent ponchos; bus tours, Boris bikes and good old British Bobbies; buskers, beggars and (of course, the scourge of the modern-day street-performer) floating Yodas.

And yet, even if you’ve lived in London your whole life, it’s unlikely you’ve ever been down the street called Bedfordbury, let alone seen it, or even heard about it. And why would you? At just 460 feet long and 30 feet wide, the street is flanked on either side by an unremarkable mishmash of disjointed architecture, with listed buildings nestling next to modern monstrosities, and office space squeezed into whatever space was free behind the back doors of the English National Opera and the London Coliseum, and yet at either ends of the street, people pass, but no-one seems to walk down Bedfordbury. It has a distinctly desolate feel and its design seems deliberately vague, almost as if it’s trying desperately hard to hide from its own cruel history… over one hundred years after the violent death of Thomas James Mills.

Situated at the street’s south end, near the junction of Chandos Place, snuggled between the Thai Pot restaurant at number two, The Lemon Tree public house at number four and just a spitting distance from the Charing Cross Police Station sits no 3 Bedfordbury; a five-storey townhouse with seven bedrooms, three bathrooms and three kitchens, which recently sold for £2.5million. Its fortune in 2017 very much on-the-up, and a far-cry from the rancid rat-infested hovel that it once was.

In 1901, as a Britain was crippled by yet another Boar War, was gripped in a state of national mourning after the death of Queen Victoria and at around the time that little Thomas Mills’ tiny lungs breathed their very last breath, Bedfordbury was widely considered one of the worst Victorian slums in London.

It was famously chronicled by George Augustus Sala in ‘Twice Around the Clock’ as (CHANGE AUDIO SOUND) “There is a wretched little haunt called Bedfordbury, a devious, slimy little reptile of a place, whose tumble-down tenements and reeking courts, spume forth plumps of animated rags, such as can be equalled in no London thoroughfare. I don’t think there are five windows in Bedfordbury with a whole pane of glass”. (END).

With nearly three hundred tenants, lodgers and squatters crammed into just twenty-four houses, none of which had electricity, gas heating, sewage or running water; and the other properties on the tiny side-street including two slaughter houses, five brothels and six public houses, Bedfordbury was the epitome of inner-city squalor; and number three was a prime example, so much so that just a few years after the brutal murder of two-year old Thomas, the building was demolished.

By 1901, nineteen tenants (from five countries) lived in four cramped flats at 3 Bedfordbury; nine on the first floor, four on the second, three on the third and fourth, with the top floor vacant as the roof had caved-in many years earlier, and was left unrepaired by an uncaring landlord. The conditions were squalid, the stench was feted, and inside everywhere was damp, dank and dark, as with each row of houses separated by a thin alley (some – like Brydges Place - just sixteen inches wide), even on the brightest of days, sunlight rarely shone into their homes, as they were cast into the eternal shadow of gloom.

Three of those tenants lived in their flat for just a few months… and none of them would never return.

The new occupants in flat 3 on the third floor of 3 Bedfordbury were a loving family looking for a fresh start, having left their problems behind them in Nunhead (South London). Although cramped and squalid, the flat was within walking distance from Covent Garden fruit market where James John Richardson, the 41 year old co-tenant had recently accepted a porter’s job with “good prospects”, hoping that one-day he could finally afford to marry his fiancé 30 year old Lavinia Mills, as well as spending more time together with their two-year old son, Thomas James Mills.

Although big, burly and solidly-built, James Richardson found the work hard and the hours long, often starting well-before dawn and rarely finishing till after dusk; a back-breaking job which he undertook every day, of every week, in every weather, simply to earn enough money to feed and clothe his family. So much so that most evenings, James would return to their tiny squalid flat exhausted, his hard work repaid by just a few coins to cover the rent, a loaf of bread, a small sack full of cast-off fruit and vegetables, and (even if he couldn’t afford it) a little toy for his beloved son, Thomas.

By all accounts, James was a doting father who loved his family with all his heart… but as hard as he strived, for as long as he tried, his body simply couldn’t cope, and before long, he’d return home all bandaged, limping and broke. Sadly, in 1901, there was no such thing as sick-pay, so if you didn’t work, you earn. If you didn’t earn, you didn’t eat. And if you didn’t eat, you couldn’t work. It was a viscous circle where the rich got richer and the poor got poorer, until the day that (hungry, homeless and broke) they would either freeze, starve or drink themselves into an early grave.

And so, as James lay there, his pain growing greater as his back got slowly weaker, the bills began to pile up, his mood began to dip, and as hard as he strived to keep them at bay, his demons resurfaced.

Being the mother to a restless two-year-old, Lavinia Mills already had her hands full as she held down three jobs to cover their costs, as James’ infirmity increased. Some of the other tenants at 3 Bedfordbury housed lodgers to supplement their meagre income, but with James’ bouts of melancholy becoming more frequent and a crying child to contend with, there was barely enough space for the three of them. And so, as unskilled labour, Lavinia was part of an army of working-class piece-workers who undertook an endless stream of monotonous roles (whether stitching, peeling, sorting or shovelling), for very little pay and rarely in the same part of the city.

And before too long, Lavinia was holding down five jobs; not only to support her ailing husband, not only to feed and clothe her son, but the keep all three of them away… from the workhouse.

Passed by wealthy Members of the British Parliament following a backlash by middle-class tax-payers who felt they were subsidising the lazy feckless working-classes to sit, drink and breed, The Poor Law Amendment Act of 1834 saw that illegitimate children (those born out of wedlock, like Thomas Mills) were the sole responsibility of their mother. If their mother, whether working or not, failed to provide the basics for her child such as food, warmth and shelter, she’d receive the dreaded knock at the door by the much-feared Beadle of the Parish (like Mr Bumble in Oliver Twist) who’d rip the fretting and wailing child from its mother’s arms, and drag it to live its short miserable life in the workhouse.

In London by 1901, the mortality rate for children such as Thomas was 74%, three out of every four infants died before they reached the age of five. But inside the workhouse, which was little more than a pauper’s prison where you were punished simply for being poor, each child was subjected to long hours of manual labour, a strict code of conduct, daily beatings and was fuelled by a bland diet of hard bread and watery soup. Therefore, many infants died of neglect, and the workhouse death rate steadily rose to over 90%.

And so, impoverished and with debts stacking up, Lavinia had no choice but to work twice as hard.  

By the height of the summer; with his injuries healing and the pain subsiding, James dragged himself back to work in Covent Garden market, having rested up (on the doctor’s orders) with a good long period of bed-rest. But now James was different, James had changed; with his face being so sullen, his movements clumsy, his eyes all glazed, raw and etched with an unusual yellow hue, his pain was masked but now his agony seemed greater than ever, as weeks of immobility and infirmity had physically helped him recover, but mentally – amidst the damp, dark, dreary walls of his cramped cold flat, with no sunlight to soothe his nerves nor quell his temper, he lived in the shadow of eternal darkness, day after day, night after night, until slowly his black moods returned.

A few months earlier, on the day they’d left Nunhead; carrying just three bags of clothes, a small handful of personal possessions, assured that this would be the fresh start the family needed; a new job, a new flat and a new life, with his mood up, their spirits high and the jagged razor scars across his wrists slowly beginning to heal, it was then (with tears in his eyes) that James promised his beloved wife and son that he would never drink again. Not one drop of alcohol would pass his lips. This was the promise he had made to them and he remained true to his word, for a while at least.

But it was as he lay there in his lice-ridden bed; his body wracked with pain and his brain riddled with guilt, as a dark cloud of depression loomed over him; being poor, hungry and broken, that James made a desperate decision which would change their lives forever. And although he returned to work at Covent Garden market, the new man who had moved to Bedfordbury was slowly replaced by the old monster they had left behind in Nunhead.

His painkiller of choice… was gin. Neat gin.

He would only need enough to lessen his pain, to lull him to sleep and to dull his senses. But even though on Bedfordbury alone there stood six pubs, with a further twelve within crawling distance, James couldn’t afford to buy “pure gin”, as being broke, this clear fresh alcohol (fermented using a fragrant mix of juniper berries, coriander seeds, angelica root, liquorice, orris root, orange and lemon peel) was too pricey to buy, so – like many workers whose lives were an endless state of drudgery and misery - he opted for what he could afford; a bootlegged booze, commonly known as “street gin”; a murky cloudy mix of sulphuric acid and turpentine which is left to ferment in an old steel drum, a sink or a bath, and flavoured with potato-shavings, weeds, sugar and even human urine. It was soporific, numbing, addictive and – worst of all – it was lethal.

It was also James’ little secret.

According to Lavinia’s testimony at the trial on 21st October 1901, James John Richardson was a good man; kind, warm and caring; a doting father who’d take his son for walks and always treated them both well. But ever since she had known him, James always had a dark-side.

By September, with a daily diet of neat “street gin” to keep his physical pain away, James’ moods had begun to blacken, his temper to increase and sadly his employment had ceased. Having been sacked; with debts piling up, money now scarce, an eviction notice issued by the landlord and his shameful addiction escalating, James was once again left alone in the damp dark squalor of flat 3 Bedfordbury, with nothing to occupy him but his own dark thoughts… and his two-year old son, Thomas.

Thomas hadn’t slept in days, as with his nose wheezing, his lungs rasping and his throat red-raw, his bout of “the croup” got steadily worse; exacerbated by damp walls, dirty floors, unclean water and a severe lack of nutrition. The only silence they’d receive in those last few days, as the incessant tears of the sickly tot rang in their ears, was when he would cry himself to sleep, exhausted.

On the morning of Saturday 5th September 1901, as Lavinia caught a few short hours of sleep before the first of her five jobs, and as James took baby Thomas for a stroll, a new toy in hand, hoping that a mix of fresh air and playful distraction would soothe his sickly son, she was awoken by a dreaded knock at the door. As she opened the door, standing before her, with papers in hand, a Policeman by his side and a long list of unfit unmarried mothers whose sickly children were destined to spend the rest of their short hard lives picking oakum in the local workhouse, stood the Beadle of the Parish.

An hour later, James had returned and the Beadle was gone… but he would be back.

The last time Lavinia saw her son alive was at 9pm that evening, as he slept soundly in his cot, his little chest rising, falling and rattling with every exhale, his cheeks flushed from the strain of crying. At the table sat James, eating a meagre supper, cutting up a few tatty leftovers, having fed his wife-to-be and son first. But that night, his eyes looked odd, stranger than usual; their yellow glaze was red-raw, with heavy dark circles forming beneath. She knew it wasn’t just tiredness nor melancholy, as she’d seen that look before, a few months earlier back in Nunhead. And as he sat there, knife in hand, slicing-up a few small slivers of meat, she asked him directly “have you been drinking?”. His answer was “no”.

Lavinia left for the last of her five jobs moments later, heading out to earn hardly enough money to cover the cost of more medicine to make her son well again. Therefore the following is based on eye-witness testimony, given at The Old Bailey, by the neighbours and those who attended the scene at 3 Bedfordbury.

At a little after 9:30pm, Mrs Tryphena Dimbleby, a widower living on the second floor heard a banging, a “hammering” as she described it, a heavy thumping noise emanating from the flat above; a man’s angry voice was yelling, and in the midst of it all, a small child was screaming. In court she stated “I went up to ask the prisoner what was the matter, I knocked at his door, he said "What do you want?", I said "If this noise continues I shall have to speak to my landlord", I heard the child cry, and that is why I went up”. (END). But beyond the thick wooden door of flat 3, the child’s screams continued, the terrified wail of a two-year old echoing around the dark damp walls of the stairwell.

Louisa & George Chauverre, a couple living on the fourth floor, ran downstairs to intervene. In court, Louisa testified that (AUDIO) “I heard a child scream—I heard Mrs. Dimbelby go to the door—the noise continued, and the child cried again—I and my husband went down to the door—my husband knocked” (END)… but this time James Richardson did not answer, the screaming had stopped and the child was silent. Fearing the worst, George Chauverre broke down the door…

…but he was too late.

James didn’t notice George break down his door. He didn’t notice him enter the flat. And neither did he notice George stop dead in his tracks, his lungs gasp and his mouth drop open in absolute horror.

As standing over the armchair, James stood; his face etched in rage, his teeth gritted in frustration and his body as naked as the day he was born. The room was silent, all except for the soft heavy thud as James slammed his tightly clenched fists, with all of his might, down onto the tiny lifeless body of his two-year old son, James’ trembling voice screaming (AUDIO) “Will you be a good boy now? Will you be a good boy now? Will you be a good boy now?” (END).

At 9:45pm, Constable Frank Hamilton of the Bow Street Police Station arrived at flat 3. The door was hanging off its hinges, James was partially clothed in a nightgown, and he’d unsuccessfully tried to wipe the child’s blood from the armchair, the floor and the wall. Between them, the tiny body of Thomas Mills lay. And amidst his ranting and raving, the only words James uttered which made any sense was this (AUDIO) “I have done it, I have done it, it was my wish it should be done” (END).

It took two men to restrain James and six to hold him down as he was arrested. James was charged with the wilful murder of two year old Thomas James Mills. To which he replied (AUDIO) “I did it for the child’s good”.

Still to this day, it is unclear what drove James to murder his beloved son. Alcohol? Anger? Depression? Maybe all three? Perhaps, as James said (QUOTE) " I thought I was doing it for the child's good" (END) and that he was simply trying to spare his sickly child, born to an unmarried mother, from a short miserable life in the workhouse? (QUOTE) As later he would state, "Me? Kill my child! You must be mad. I love my baby” (END). And clearly he did. Or maybe, lurking under the drink and the depression, lay something more sinister; as he would also later state (QUOTE) “I thought the baby had a nerve, so I bit it through the mouth and on the top of the head, to do it good". (END)

At 9:50pm, having aided Constable Hamilton in restraining the “mad man”, Constable James Grey went to assist the small lifeless body of Thomas; his silent body was slowly cooling and his face was a swollen mass of ruptured skin… but through the blood bubbles, he could see that (somehow) the little boy was still breathing. Cradling the child in his arms, Constable Grey rushed to King’s College Hospital, barely a few minutes away, but as much as two year old Thomas fought a good fight, he succumbed to his injuries at 10pm.

Robert Jakes, the House Surgeon at Kings College Hospital listed Thomas’ injuries as (AUDIO) “he had a cut on the scalp; a piece had been cut clean out, about the size of a florin; both sides of the face were very much bruised, part of the nose and upper lip had been torn away, and one of the front teeth was knocked out… the fourth and fifth ribs on the left side were broken, and the sixth, seventh and eighth ribs on both sides—there was blood in the stomach; the skull was fractured on the left side; there was a small fracture on the right side of the scalp… there was a good deal of laceration to the front part of the brain—the injury to the scalp was a perfectly clean cut—but I cannot say what it was done with.” (END)

At the murder scene, no knife was ever found.

Of the three tenants at no 3 Bedfordbury, WC2;  James John Richardson was declared insane, tried at the Old Bailey on 21st October 1901, found guilty of infanticide and was detained at Her Majesty’s Pleasure until his death (six years later) in 1907. With his family unable to afford a plot, a funeral or even a headstone, Thomas James Mills was buried in a pauper’s grave, along with several other children who’d died that day, many in the local workhouse. And whereas, his mother, Lavinia Mills? Exhausted, she arrived home that evening at 11pm, an hour after her son had died. In her hand she held her wage, which was barely enough money to buy the medicine she had needed, to make her son well again. She left Bedfordbury the very next morning, and never returned.

OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed this podcast, please rate us and subscribe to the Murder Mile podcast on iTunes, and also “like” and “share” us with your friends. And if you’re in London, why not take part in the Murder Mile Walk, it’s my guided walk of Soho’s most infamous murder cases, featuring 12 murderers, 15 locations and 75 mysterious deaths over one mile, in just two hours. Tickets are available via www.murdermiletours.com

Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by Michael Buchanan-Dunne, with the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. For gigs, tour-dates and albums, please visit www.cultwithnoname.com

The next episode is entitled: The Mysterious Death of Dutch Leah.

 Thank you and sleep well.

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DOWNLOAD this episode of Murder Mile Episode #3 - The Bedfordbury Baby-Batterer. 
​You can also listen to the podcast live, by clicking PLAY on this embedded player above. 

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Credits: The Murder Mile true-crime podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible). The music was written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. ​​

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The next episode: The Mysterious Death of "Dutch Leah" (due 2nd November 2017). 

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No plans this weekend? Why not book yourself into Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "curious, quirky and unusual things to do in London". Click BOOK NOW for tickets.

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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, totalling 75 deaths, over just a one mile walk.