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Western Avenue in Perivale; Ultra Electrics where Reg Christie met Muriel Eady was on the right hand side where the Greenford Travelodge now sits
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.
EPISODE FORTY-EIGHT
Episode Forty-Eight: On Saturday 7th October 1944, 32 year old East London orphan Muriel Eady vanished from Ladbroke Grove in West London, one year after 21 year old Ruth Fuerst, but with this being war-time, it was believed that she was just one of thousands of unidentified bodies and body-parts littered across the city’s bomb-craters, but she was the second confirmed victim of the infamous British serial killer John Reginald Halliday Christie. This is part two of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place.
THE LOCATION
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Ep49 – The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place – Part Two - Muriel Amelia Eady
Trust - a firmly-held belief that a person is reliable, truthful and honest. It can’t be faked, traded or bought, it can only be earned. And unlike any greeting, gossip or pleasantry, trust takes time, patience and tests, before we let anyone into our confidence and open up to our inner-most secrets. Trust is reserved solely for friends, family and (in rare exceptions) strangers; like firemen, policemen, doctors, nurses, soldiers and security. But without a bloodline, a bond or a uniform, trust requires a kind face, a caring voice and a calm demeanour. In 1942, The Blackout Ripper struck, killing four women having gained their trust; he was tall, charming and handsome, with a crisp RAF uniform, bright blue eyes and an easy smile. Where-as Reg Christie was not; he was short, scrawny, balding and bespectacled, a strange man in a crumpled old suit; with an odd little whisper, false teeth that slipped and (no longer being a Special Constable) no uniform. But what he lacked physically, he made up with mentally, meaning that (for a whole decade) his killing spree would go undetected, all because he was kind, caring and – worst of all – patient. In August 1943, Reg Christie murdered 21 year old Ruth Furest in a fit of spontaneous lust. One year on, with his urge unsated and his carnal desire swelling, having learned from his mistakes, this murder would be planned to perfection. And with a fresh victim in his sights, he needed to gain her trust. Some of what follows is based on the killer’s own memories and perspective; so what part of this story is true… is up to you. My name is Michael. I am your tour-guide. This is Murder Mile. And I present to you; part two of the full, true and untold story of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place. SCRIPT: Today, I’m standing by the A40 on Western Avenue in Perivale; a heavily industrialised part of West London, far from the seediness of Soho, but in an area absolutely vital to our story. As a chaotic dual-carriageway connecting the capital city to the Welsh coastal town of Fishguard, you may think you don’t know the A40, but with a small stretch of it also called Oxford Street, the A40 passes-by the Denmark Place fire, Freddie Mills suicide, Jacque Tratsart’s homicide, Mary Pickwoad’s abortion, Abd al-Naif’s assassination, several locations of The Blackout Ripper, and as it exits Edgware Road to become the Paddington fly-over, the A40 overlooks what remains of 10 Rillington Place. Situated 9.3 miles west of Soho, as one of London’s busiest roads, Western Avenue is noisy, dirty and chaotic; as with the deafening thunder of trains, the choking fumes of trucks and ear-splitting scream as jumbo-jets roar out of Heathrow, amidst a thick smog of swirling dust, nasally it’s a very confusing place, as enveloped by factories whose chimneys burp out the sweet scent of biscuits, curry and beer (mmm) often it’s interspersed by a caustic cloud of chemicals, burnt rubber and sewage (not mmm). Although I’m standing directly opposite the infamous Hoover Building; a stunning grade-two art-deco factory built in stark white-concrete with shimmering green glass, the exact location of the place I’m looking for is unknown, and what was left, has been entirely demolished. Now occupied by the Greenford Premier Inn - a budget hotel where tired salesmen forgo the arduous two-hour commute (to the wife and kids) and instead, sink a few suds, scoff a steak, pay for a porn film by mistake and mysteriously book a double-room for themselves and their “daughter” who visits her “daddy” for just “58 minutes” (I’m guessing) – but originally, sat on this site was Ultra Electrics Ltd; a radio manufacturer whose war-work was so secretive, that to confuse any Nazi saboteurs, they incorrectly listed their address as being in both Acton and Park Royal, almost three miles east. And yet, in the summer of 1944, it was here, that a shy, bright but lonely lady called Murial Eady was lured into the confidence of a delivery driver who had secrets of his own. (Interstitial). Muriel Amelia Eady was born on 14th October 1912 in Canning Town, East London; a dark, squalid and impoverished district on the north-side bank of the River Thames; with a skyline chockful of belching chimneys, the sooty air thick with an acrid soupy smog, the murky brown water fizzing with effluent, and surrounded by the endless cacophony of docks, cranes and iron-works. And being one year into the stark austerity of the First World War; with food rationed, fuel in short supply and the ominous low-drone as German Zeppelins crept silently amongst the clouds, stealthfully dumping bouncing balls of burning magnesium which shattered, sparked and set the city aflame, in what would become the original (and long-forgotten) London Blitz - this was no place to raise a child. But to Muriel this was home. Muriel was born at 20 Baron Road; in one of thousands of identical Victorian terraced houses built to serve the dock workers in the 1850’s, and later demolished in the slum clearance. Although tiny, it was home to their mother Fanny Louisa Eady, five year old Reginald, three year old Ernest and Muriel. To Muriel and her siblings, Fanny was everything; a doting single-mother who struggled alone on a single income with three small children. And although she was still married to William Eady - a sailor in the Merchant Navy who rarely (if reluctantly) returned home and was a father in name only - in the 1911 census, it rightfully lists Fanny as “head of the house”. And although one of her babies was always sick, as raised amongst the sooty choking gloom of Canning Town, Muriel suffered with asthma, adenoids and catarrh which would plague her for life (SNIFF), being blessed with such a wonderful mother; Reginald, Ernest and Muriel thrived and survived. And then, in February 1918, as one of deadliest pandemics swept across the globe killing close to one hundred million people, having been struck down with deadly influenza, a virus for which there was no treatment or cure, Fanny Louisa Eady died in Poplar Hospital. Muriel was just six years old. Being distraught, what she wanted was a hug, what she needed was her mum, but what she got was William Eady; an unsmiling uncaring stranger, who – being gruff, rough and grumpy – only cared for the sea, and seeing these kids as nothing but a burden, he abandoned them. Three grieving children; all alone, scared and cruelly orphaned were placed into care at the Hutton Poplars Residential Home for Destitute Children in Brentwood, where they would remain for most of their childhood. And as a shy girl, struggling for an ounce of love in a stern Victorian orphanage full of seven hundred screaming kids and crying babies, with no mother to guide her and fearing any father-figure, in the six years she remained at Hutton Hall - feeling rejected, abandoned and alone - Muriel became secretive and retreated into isolation, trusting no-one but herself. (Christie’s whisper) “I knew I wanted her, the Eady woman, but she were different from the others, you know, quiet-like, so it had to be a really clever murder, much cleverer than the first”. (End) As a young girl, Muriel cut quite a sad figure as her flat-feet scraped along the care-home’s stone floor; her shoulders slumped, her back hunched and the dark brown curls of her hair hiding her heartbroken eyes. And as the days dragged on, for fear of being abandoned again, this became her shield. Muriel was a ragged little mess dressed in oversized clothes, whose chest wheezed, whose nose sniffed (SNIFF) and who rarely made a sound except to emit a timid nasal squeak. After close to six years in care (being made to feel less like an abandoned child and more like a burden on the state) aged eleven, her father’s sister-in-law, Ethel Souhami, asked to look after Mariel. This should have been her chance to bloom, to blossom, to put the past of her fractured family behind her and start her life afresh, by playing with some new-found pals and living in a sweet semi-detached house on a peaceful tree-lined street at 48 Creswick Road in Acton, West London. But although she liked to be called “Aunt Ethel”, she had no plans to become Muriel’s new mum. As a fastidiously neat, supremely strict and mealy-mouthed French widow, being partially disabled, Ethel struggled to run a lodging house, which was home to five regular residents from the local Police station, all of whom needed meals cooked, beds made and uniforms ironed. Ethel needed a shy silent servant, who would do as she was told; with her head down, mouth closed and would sleep in a box-room under the stairs; working every hour of every day, for no money, no rest and no thanks. Her servant was Muriel and this became her life for the next fifteen years. By 1939, Muriel was twenty-seven years old; she was unmarried, uneducated and friendless, with no money, no social life, no love-life and (being unwilling to trust the local doctor) her catarrh began to plague her with headaches, Muriel had very little experience in life… and yet, it was almost over. That April, whether as a blessing or a curse, Aunt Ethel died. And with no next of kin; the house was sold, the lodgers moved out and Muriel was left penniless, homeless and (once again) abandoned. But finally being free, for the first time in a very long while, Muriel started to live. A few months later, she was working as a laundry assistant at Pembroke College in the historic city of Cambridge, and although war had been declared and Europe was in chaos, for once, Muriel had money, freedom and hope, and living in a shared lodging, she began to come out of her shell. By 1940, with the Blitz still a few months away, Muriel had moved back to London and was lodging at 12 Roskell Road in Putney; a nice little terraced house in a neat little street, owned by Martha Elizabeth Hooper, her mother’s sister. But unlike dreaded old Aunt Ethel, Auntie Martha was a sweet lady with a warm smile, a big heart and all-embracing hugs, who – best of all - reminded Muriel of her mum. By 1943, being bored of a life in domestic service, with millions of men being posted overseas to fight for King and Country, new roles had opened up for women, so being eager to ‘do her bit’, Muriel began a career as an assembler at the Integral Auxiliary Equipment Company on Power Road in Chiswick, where she learned how to build hydraulic pumps for aircraft and met her new best friend – Pat. By 1944, relishing her independence, Muriel’s confidence began to blossom, as guided by Pat, the two pals (described as being like “two peas in a pod”) became regulars at the Half Moon Public House on Lower Richmond Road, the amusement hall by Putney Bridge and a dance-hall called the Black & White Milk Bar on Putney High Street, and as her social-life bloomed, Muriel had begun to date. Eager to expand her horizons, Pat put her pal forward for a plum job. And being a “skilled assembler” who was regarded as “essential labour” making vital components for the war-effort, on 20th April 1944 Muriel Eady began work at a recently built factory on Western Road, it was called Ultra Electrics. It was a good job, at a nice firm, for a steady wage and a bright future. And with her confidence at an all-time high, Muriel had begun to make a few new friends… one of whom, was a softly spoken former Special Constable who (in the months ahead) would meticulously plan her death. (Interstitial) (Christie’s whisper) “I were medically-trained, you know, in the Army, so my knowledge of medicine made it possible for me to talk convincingly about sickness. She believed I could cure her”. With Ultra Electrics producing over a thousand radio sets a day for civilian and military service, as well as radio equipment for one of Britain’s best war-time multi-strike aircraft - the de Havilland Mosquito - work was busy but rewarding. In staggered shifts of fifteen minutes, a multitude of machinists, assemblers, checkers, packers and office staff descended on the factory’s canteen, mingling by the tea-urn, scrimmaging for Chelsea buns and jostling for space on the benches. Muriel was one face in a sea of fifteen hundred; all identically dressed in oily overalls, black boots and hair-nets, and yet it was here, over a nice warm cuppa, that she got chatting to a lorry driver from the despatch department called John Reginald Halliday Christie. (Christie’s whisper) “I prefer it if you call me Reg”. The cruelty of her lost childhood had taught Muriel never to trust anyone, so experience should have warned her to steer clear of Christie, but as a blossoming wallflower with a bright future ahead, as they chatted, she began to enjoy his company. To Muriel, Reg was a happily married man (Christie) “twenty four years to be precise”, a former Special Constable (“commended twice”) and a decorated war-hero (“awarded the British War & Victory Medal”). With a badly crumpled suit, thick-lensed spectacles and false teeth which slipped when he smiled, he didn’t look sinister, he looked silly. So why she liked him? We may never know. But being just slightly older than Muriel and named Reginald, perhaps this harmless man reminded the lost child within her of happier times with her own big brother? And with that, he began to gain her trust. (Christie’s whisper) “I knew I wanted her, the Eady woman, but she were different from the others, you know, quiet-like, so it had to be a really clever murder, much cleverer than the first”. (End) Christie would later claim that the murder of Ruth Fuerst was unplanned, a spontaneous act of lust on a desperate and (possibly) pregnant woman, he had lured to his home with a gift of ten shillings. Where-as Muriel was independent, self-sufficient and guarded; with a good job, a solid wage, a stable home, a busy social life, a best-friend called Pat and (it is believed) a boyfriend called Ernest. Five years prior, Muriel’s life was a mess, but now, she didn’t need anything from anyone. Christie hadn’t killed in a year and with the Police suspecting that Ruth was simply one of thousands of unidentified bodies or body-parts which littered the city’s bomb-craters having been blasted to bits by any number of aerial bombardments, the evidence of his evil crime lay undisturbed in a shallow grave in his back-garden. But seeing Muriel, knowing Muriel and liking Muriel, as those same dark urges swelled, he knew that he wanted her, and that she would be next, but without a way in, he would need to be patient. Over the next few months, he played the part of a trusted friend, inviting Muriel and her boyfriend to his home, to meet his wife, to chat over tea and cake, and even make up a foursome to the flicks. It made a nice change for Reg & Ethel to have company, as although they were a nice enough couple, they were rarely close, choosing to shower any affection on their dog Judy, rather than each other. And as pleasant as the charade was, it solved one big problem, only to open up another; Muriel liked Reg, she trusted him and she was comfortable in his home… but now, he needed to get her alone. In September 1944, tragedy struck, when a high-explosive bomb fell on a packed air-raid shelter killing everyone inside, one of whom was Pat. To Christie, the cruel death of Muriel’s best pal should have been a blessing as being so bereft, most people would seek out the sympathetic ear of a trusted friend? But as familiar feelings of abandonment rose once again, being inconsolable, even by her boyfriend, Muriel retreated into solitude and Christie was at a loss… (SNIFF) …but then again, tears can have terrible side-effects on a person plagued with catarrh. (Christie’s whisper) “…it had to be a really clever murder, much cleverer than the first. It were my wide knowledge of medicine which made it possible for me to talk convincingly about sickness and disease, and she readily believed I could cure her”. (End) And as promised, a few days later, for the first time in decades, Muriel Eady wouldn’t feel pain… any more. On Saturday 7th October 1944, after a tiring shift at Ultra Electrics, made all the more gruelling as her throbbing head and painful sinuses had plagued her with weeks of fitful sleeps; Muriel dressed in a navy blue blouse, black shoes, a black artificial silk dress with a pink collar and a camel-coloured cloche coat. At four pm, she left her Auntie Martha’s home at 12 Roskell Road in Putney, saying “I shan’t be late”. She didn’t say where she was going or who she was meeting, she was never seen alive again. At a little after five pm, having exited Ladbroke Grove tube station, guided by a small torch along the pitch-black street, Muriel took her usual route to Reg’s; the clomp of her tired feet accompanied by her chorus of coughs, wheezes and sneezes, as she passed David Griffin’s Refreshment Room, headed east along Lancaster Road, up St Mark’s Road and went left into the dark dead-end of Rillington Place. The street was pitch-black, as with each resident sticking to the strict war-time rules of the blackout; every light was off, every curtain was closed and every door was shut, and with any sound muffled by the distant thud of bombs and tube trains which thundered by, the street was empty and eerily silent. Knocking at number ten, as the black door crept open a crack, Muriel was greeted by the slobbering drool, whimper and occasional widdle of Reg’s brown mongrel – Judy; but sadly, although Reg was here, being up in Halifax to stay with her brother, tonight they wouldn’t have the company of Ethel. So, lighting the gas-light and taking her coat, with a fresh pot of tea brewing on the hob, Reg led Muriel along the thin drab hallway, passed the front-room (with its loose creaky floorboards), the bedroom (with its once strangely stained sheets), and into the cosy little kitchen, barely yards from the little back garden, where Ruth’s decomposing corpse lay undiscovered, and – soon – so would Muriel’s. Over a cuppa, the two friends chatted, with Reg perched on a small round stool in front of the alcove, as Muriel reclined in the wooden deck-chair; a grey blanket covering the five lengths of rope with a spare draped over the back, his plan to repair it. And although Reg had been off-sick with fibrositis affecting his back and his bronchitis having flared-up, his priority was to solve Muriel’s catarrh. It was well-known that Reg had a wide knowledge of medicine; as a Special Constable “commended twice” he had trained in First Aid and was awarded two certificates which proudly hung on his wall; as a student doctor, he had read a-good many medical books before his training “was cruelly cut-short by The Great War”; and as a war-hero, “whilst serving in the Nottingham & Derbyshire Signal Corp” he was disabled in a mustard gas attack which left him with a voice little more than a whisper, Muriel knew Reg was experienced, trusted and (best of all) knowledgeable. So as Muriel coughed, wheezed and sneezed, looking a sorry-sight who sighed with lack of sleep, Reg sympathised. As a frequent sufferer of catarrh himself, he knew that the menthol mist expectorant she’d been prescribed was “next to useless”, he knew could cure her, and Muriel knew it too. With a reassuring smile, Reg gently placed into her hands a square glass jar, six inches deep and wide, which his wife had used a few times prior to pickle fruit. Inside (instead of the potted plums) sloshed a white liquid which smelled strongly of the reassuring whiff of Friar’s Menthol Balsam. And with two crude holes drilled into the metal lid; into the right hole ran a two-metre length of rubber hose, starting in the depths of the white bubbling liquid and disappearing off towards the curtain by the slightly open kitchen window, where-as into the left hole was the short stubby end of a rubber hose, through which Muriel would inhale. Yes, it looked a little bit silly and home-made, but Reg reassured her, it would do the trick. And so, as Muriel leaned over the square glass jar, having placed a large scarf over her head to fully ensure she absorbed its medicinal goodness, Muriel breathed deeply, inhaling the minty bubbling vapours. Within a minute, with her sinuses clearing and her pain disappearing, Muriel felt different. But the long rubber hose wasn’t there as a steady supply of fresh air from the open window, used to purify this “special compound”. Instead, Reg had connected the hose to the gas-pipe. And with the strong eggy smell of coal gas disguised by the overpowering eucalyptus of the Friar’s Balsam, as Muriel breathed deeper, her lungs slowly filled full of carbon monoxide, an invisible deadly gas commonly known as the ‘silent killer’. Christie wasn’t a heavy man, muscular or strong, so even the act of overpowering a small weak girl like Ruth Fuerst had been a struggle. And yet, with no force or assault, just a little bit of trust and a lot of patience, he had willingly rendered Muriel unconscious. And as she lay there, slumped in his deck-chair, silent, still and passive, Reg strangled her with a length of rope. (Christie’s whisper) “Once again, I experienced that quiet peaceful thrill. I had no regrets”. (End) Only this time, his sordid deed wouldn’t be disturbed by an urgent telegram, as Ethel would be away for weeks; he wouldn’t be interrupted by Mr Kitchener, the elderly deaf tenant in the flat above; and he wouldn’t receive a call from any worried friends or concerned relatives, as (of those she hadn’t lost contact with) no-one knew she was here… but Reg. And as he dragged Muriel’s lifeless corpse along the communal hallway and into the bedroom, over the next few hours, he would savour every moment of his long-awaited prize; as he fondled her slowly cooling breasts, caressed the curves of her stiffening body and kissed her protruding purple tongue which jutted from her ruptured bloated face, as having wanted her for months, now her body was his. And unlike in his joyless, sexless marriage to a frumpy baggy hag, for once, Reg had no problem getting or maintaining an erection, as his lustful urges descended into necrophilia. (bed springs) The next night, her body was buried in the back garden of 10 Rillington Place, alongside Ruth Fuerst, with any identification destroyed and all possessions sold. And although a missing persons’ report was issued, hospital admissions were checked and her details were tallied with any lists of unidentified body-parts found during the aerial bombardments, Muriel became one of thousands of missing people who disappeared during war-time. And having been cruelly abandoned by fate and a father (in name only), through strive and struggle, Muriel had finally begun to live the good life that she truly deserved, but having dropped her guard to a trusted friend – simply so he could cure her catarrh – the life of Muriel Amelia Eady was ended. (Christie’s whisper) “I knew I wanted her, the Eady woman, but she were different from the others, you know, quiet-like, so it had to be a really clever murder, much cleverer than the first”. (End) OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed parts one and two, part three of The Other Side of 10 Rillington Place continues next Thursday. And if you’re a murky miler, stay tuned for some mindless waffle after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are Nordic True-Crime and Hoosier Homicide. (PLAY PROMO) And don’t forget, if you’re looking for a special Christmas or birthday gift, check out the Murder Mile merchandise shop, as we have exclusive Murder Mile mugs, badges, thank you cards and bespoke gifts, but also a threadless store full of t-shirts, bags, wallets, literally everything. You could also treat a loved one, to a subscription to Murder Mile’s patreon account, and receive each episode days before everyone else. Links are in the show-notes. Murder Mile was researched, written and performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER *** The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, therefore mistakes will be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken. It is not a full representation of the case, the people or the investigation in its entirety, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity and drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, therefore it will contain a certain level of bias to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. *** LEGAL DISCLAIMER ***
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), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed by various artists, as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. A list of tracks used and the links are listed on the relevant transcript blog here.
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British podcast Awards 2018", 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 & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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