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101 Charlotte Street (in 2019 and 1917)
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 SIXTY-THREE
On Wednesday 31st October 1917, Emilienne Gerard went missing from her home at 50 Munster Square, the perfect suspect was her lover - Louis Voisin, an experienced butcher who could kill a cow with a single blow, a conniving love-rat who carefully juggled his two secret mistresses and a romantic soul who would do anything for the woman he loved - but did he kill her?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations (and I don't want to be billed £300 for copyright infringement again), to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
I've added the location of 101 Charlotte Street where Louis Voisin lived and where Emilienne was murdered with marked with a red !. to the left and the red ! to the right is Regent Square where her body parts were found. To use the map, simply click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as King's Cross and Paddington, you access them by clicking here
For your enjoyment, here's two short videos showing you 101 Charlotte Street where Louis lived and Emilienne was murdered, and Regent Square where the body parts were found. These videos are only one minute long and is a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Ep63: Louis Voisin – the Love-Rat, his Ladies and the Bloody Belgian
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 London’s West End. Today’s episode is about Louis Voisin; an experienced butcher who could kill a cow with a single blow, a conniving love-rat who carefully juggled his two secret mistresses and a romantic soul who would do anything for the woman he loved. But which one did he love? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatisation of the real events, it may also feature loud and 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 63: Louis Voisin – the Love Rat, his Ladies and the Bloody Belgian. Today I’m standing on Charlotte Street, W1; one street north of the infamous Charlotte Street robbery, three streets east of The Blackout Ripper’s third victim Margaret Lowe, one street west of the death-bed of fourteen week old Charlie Chirgwin and between Hyde Park and Regent’s Park where two terrorist bombs caused two innocents to die… who weren’t even there - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated in Fitrovia - a supposedly fashionable district just north of Soho - Charlotte Street stretches almost the length of this square mile, running parallel to Tottenham Court Road, but unlike the funky seedy filth of Soho’s Old Compton Street; Charlotte Street is dull, grey, drab and bland. As a long straight road with flat-fronted townhouses on both sides, many of which may be musty old eateries but as they’re so dark inside it’s hard to tell, Charlotte Street is only busy three times a day; when the commuters arrive, leave and pop to Pret. Then suddenly, it’s swarmed with advertising arseholes all waffling on about how their projects are on-brand, dynamic and game-changers, and TV tosspots daring to call themselves ‘creatives’ when all they do pick random words from a hat and loudly exclaim “huzzah, that’s our new show, ‘celebrity chef patio make-overs on ice’. Oh my God, I am a genius. Pay-rise please”. But for the rest of the time, the street is dead. Set near the north end, 101 Charlotte Street is entirely demolished; with the old building replaced by a new one and the new replaced by a newer one. As being a construction site, a sea of men in hi-viz vests stand-about doing diddly-squat as they supervise one dude doing some digging, all under a sign which proudly reads “no accidents for 140 days”, which ironically was the last time they’re weren’t on a tea-break. And yet they are unaware that this was the sight of a brutal murder and dismemberment. As it was here, on Wednesday 31st October 1917, that French butcher Louis Voisin would make a fatal decision which would drive one mistress to insanity and the other mistress to her grave. (Interstitial) Louis Voisin loved women. Born on the outskirts of Paris in 1875 and raised in a decent honest working-class family, to a butcher father, a housewife mother and three younger sisters; as the eldest and only boy, Louis Marie Joseph Voison loved the attention of women; whether family, friends, school-chums or colleagues. Oddly, he never married, but rarely being single; Louis always had a girlfriend, often had a mistress and (as if his love-life wasn’t hectic enough) he sometimes had a second mistress. But he wasn’t a wealthy playboy, a sexy stud or a dashing gigolo with chiselled features, sharp-suits and a six-pack. No, Louis was a butcher; who looked, dressed and smelled like a butcher. In fact, as a short but stocky man with big arms, thick legs, a fat neck, a bulbous nose and a large round gut, being an employee for Messers Dring Launay & Co, a sausage merchants at Smithfield Market, he looked as you’d expect a sausage butcher to look. And although, with a ludicrously huge handlebar moustache, he seemed as if he also dabbled as a part-time opera singer in the local pubs, he didn’t. Louis was a butcher and a good one too. Being a large man with powerful arms, Louis could fell a fully-grown cow with a single blow, instantly putting it out of its misery, and as a skilled executioner of livestock with a solid knowledge of anatomy, each single swipe with his axe would precisely hit the joint, sever the muscles, slice the tendons and cleanly dismember its limbs, legs, hooves and head. Louis Voisin was hardly what you might call a heartthrob or a hunk; being a recent stranger in a foreign land, he was barely literate in English, with hardly enough conversation to get by and his spelling was atrocious, and yet, there was something about him which some women adored. As a native French speaker, Louis was articulate, erudite and cultured. As a patient man, he would sit, wait and listen. And as an avid reader, he would woo these love-sick women with poetry. He wasn’t wealthy, educated or handsome, but he gave them what they wanted; time, warmth and attention, and in stark contrast to his job, he was big yet gentle, powerful yet sensitive, a killer and yet kind. But like all love-rats, his downside was that as much as he professed his undying love for a woman, he was never faithful, and always sought the attention of others, whether they were available or not. In April 1916, he met his next lover, and her name was Emilienne Gerard. Born in the French city of Rouen, Emilienne Gerard was a 32 year old housewife who was shy, quiet and softly-spoken. With pale luminescent skin accentuated by her dark neck-length hair, baby blue eyes as wide as a startled deer’s and rose-bud lips stuck somewhere between desperation and deeply tragic, being so weak and slightly built, it looked as if a stiff breeze would blow her over. With her father in France, she had no close family. Except for her cats, she lived alone. Being so timid, her only friend was a young girl called Marguerite Dufour. And with World War One raging, being enlisted in the Army - Paul Gerard - her husband of seven years had been gone for almost three. Living in a two-roomed lodging at 50 Munster Square, three streets north of Charlotte Street, although Marguerite kept her company; Emilienne hated the dark, the silence and the solitude. As even in a big city like London, miles from the bloody battleground of The Somme, at night, German zeppelins crept across the pitch-black sky like silent clouds of death, raining down fire on the sleeping people below. Emilienne was a lonely fragile lady who was desperate for love and protection. In April 1916, Emilienne took a job as a cook at The Commercial, an Italian restaurant at 99 Charlotte Street. With modest savings squirrelled away, she didn’t need the money, but being so lonely, she needed to stay busy and to have someone to talk to. Sadly, as the job was too hot, fast and heavy for such a frail lady, Emilienne lasted just two weeks, but by then, a new friendship had bloomed. Supplying the restaurant with fresh meat, Louis and Emilienne became an unlikely pairing; he was big and gregarious, she was tiny and meek; her hands were neat and petite, his were large, rough and caked in blood - but as friends, they were inseparable. Two weeks later, Louis offered her a more suitable role as his housekeeper in his humble two-roomed lodging, opposite the restaurant at 101 Charlotte Street. She stayed in the job for more than a year, and during that time their relationship went from friends, to soul-mates, to secret lovers. And yet, eighteen months later, on 31st October 1917, in the basement of 101 Charlotte Street, wielding a bloody axe, Louis Voisin would hack her lifeless body to bits. (Interstitial) Being considerate of her needs and unwilling to cause her any unnecessary distress, Louis kept their liaison quiet, with many believing they were just friends. But over Christmas 1916, their tawdry affair was tested to its fullest when her husband Paul got eleven days leave and returned home. Sat in their two-roomed lodging at 50 Munster Square, over a home-cooked meal and a game of cards, Paul found Louis to be charming, his wife to be happier, and knowing he was unable to provide her with the companionship she needed, from so far away, in early January 1917, Paul Gerard left for the French front-line reassured that Louis - his wife’s new friend - was just that. Only he wasn’t. As Paul set sail on the boat-train back to the trenches, Emilienne hung a large portrait of Louis above her mantelpiece - its frame well-polished and its glass bright - as being besotted by her lover, she continued to lavish him with meals, gifts and even a rather substantial loan of £50 (almost £3500 today). Unaware that her money was not being used to better himself but to support his other women. In May 1917, eager to see her father in Rouen, Marguerite’s friends in Marseille and to rekindle what little was left of her marriage, Emilienne left on a three month trip to France, leaving her faithful lover a key to her house - to open her post, feed her cats and pay her rent, which he did without fail. With Emilienne gone for three long months, Louis found himself another housekeeper and mistress. Born in the coastal city of Boulogne-Sur-Mer in Northern France; as a recent widow whose husband had been cruelly cut-down by canon-fire at The Somme, 38 year old Berthe Roche was weak, fragile and tragic; a tiny spindly brunette who was the opposite of Louis, but the spitting-image of Emilienne. To say he had a type was an understatement, and as an emotionally wrought women; terrified of the dark, silence and solitude, who being wracked with grief lived in a spiral of love, loss and jealousy, although they seemed like sisters, the love-rat kept both of his women apart. At the end of September 1917, as Emilienne returned to London, Berthe moved into Louis’ basement lodging at 101 Charlotte Street. Living in two pitifully cramped rooms, although it was adequate for a single butcher, it hardly cut a romantic tone for a love-rat, his girlfriend or his mistress. The dark sitting-room was sparsely furnished with two wooden chairs, a small fire and a coarse horse-hair bed; the filthy kitchen was littered with the tools of his trade (knives, ropes, axes and sacks); and in the back yard was the slaughter man’s stables, a sad soulless shed full of two old nags on their last legs, a horse-cart used for carrying larger carcases, an overpowering stench of manure and a thick oak table with a drain underneath to wash away the animal’s guts, gizzard and entrails. So being too afraid to walk the bomb-damaged streets alone, Berthe stayed at home. With his place being a pit, Louis preferred to wine and dine Emilienne in the modest comfort of her own home. And so, with his girlfriend and mistress just three streets apart, they remained unaware of each other, living in blissful ignorance. But one month later, Louis’ love would be sorely tested. Wednesday 31st October 1917 was Emilienne Gerard’s last day alive. As a creature of habit, every day Louis awoke at 4:30am, arrived at Smithfield Market one hour later, saw the foreman, fed the company’s horses, returned to Charlotte Street and (sat upon his horse and cart) he delivered sacks of meat and sausage parcels across Soho and Fitrovia throughout the day. At 3pm, Louis met with Emilienne. He later stated “I last saw Madame Gerrard between two and three pm on Wednesday 31st, she was with a young French girl named Marguerite Dufour, who (I am told) intended to go to Marseilles. Madame Gerrard was to accompany her friend to Waterloo Station and possibly as far as Southampton. In her absence, she asked me to visit her home to feed her cat”. Shortly afterwards, he went straight to 24 Charlotte Street, staying for one hour, as confirmed by the occupants Mr & Mrs Melanie; he returned home and attended to his horses, as witnessed by several tenants at 101 Charlotte Street; had dinner at 7pm and went to bed by 9pm, as witnessed by Berthe. But the night would be short… At a little before midnight, Berthe awoke with a jolt, as the fast rapid fists of their landlady (Angeline Luppens) pounded door-after-door screaming “wake up, air-raid”. Berthe’s bedroom was pitch black and silent except for Louis’ deep nasal snore, but beyond the hubbub of terrified tenants whose feet thundered downstairs, through the clawing wail of sirens, the distant bangs as bombs crept ever closer and the low drone as Zeppelin airships loomed overheard, Berthe knew that Death was approaching. Dashing into the unlit passageway, Berthe stood with the other tenants; the gas-lights off, the walls shaking, families holding each other tight, as above them stalked the silent killers in the clouds. Alone and petrified, as Berthe’s hands shook, she called to Louis - “Louis” – and although the big man grunted a grumpy “alright, alright”, having survived several bombings before, seconds later, his snoring began. Outside, although a soupy fog hung low, making visibility close to zero, it was pockmarked with yellow flashes and orange flames as the city burned. Fearing for their lives, the tenants fled their flats and braved the blacked-out streets, as they raced deep into the safety of the underground platforms of Goodge Street tube station – everyone left, except for Berthe and Louis. For three hours, the city shook… until suddenly, the guns stopped and the “all clear” was sounded. When the tenants returned, Angeline saw that Berthe was a mess; her hands shook, her nerves were shredded and her pale face was etched with a haunted expression. And yet, through it all, Louis slept. The next morning was a normal day for Louis; up at 4:30, Smithfield by 5:30, home by 7:30, and went about his deliveries on his horse and cart. At 3pm he visited the shop of his boss Mr Launay on Charing Cross Road, he fed his horses, finished by 7pm, and as a creature of habit he was in bed by 9pm. Still traumatised by the night’s horrors, Bertha distracted herself by scrubbing his bloodied butcher’s overalls – a job Louis always preferred was handled by professionals at his local laundry – so being so heavily soiled and with Berthe’s nerves too shot, she left his white and blue striped shirt to soak. It was just a very normal day. And with a fierce storm brewing, as a bitter wind whipped up, being too strong for Zeppelins to fly, the next night was silent, as Berthe slept and Louis snored. On Friday 2nd November 1917 at 8:30am, thirty-two hours after the blitz - as the shell-shocked citizens counted the cost of lost homes and lives in their bomb-cratered city - one mile north-east of Charlotte Street, Thomas Henry (a nurse at the local insane asylum) left his home at 17 Regent Square, WC1. By then, the lashing rain had stopped. Being a large private garden with lines of four-storey terrace-houses on all sides, as Thomas strolled along the south-side, towards the central gate, just inside of the square’s tall iron railings, he spotted two large parcels, half-hidden by the bushes. With the larger parcel as big as a fifty kilo sack of spuds and the other slightly smaller; neatly wrapped in coarse muslin sacks and tied with a thick twine, they looked too tidy to be trash, so feeling curious, Thomas pried the larger parcel open and what he found was undeniably human flesh. (Police whistle) Examined by Divisional Surgeon John Cabe, underneath the brown sacks and bound in ripped strips of red bedsheets, the large parcel contained a woman’s torso, naked but for a silk chemise and a cotton vest; her wrists, knees and neck severed, leaving their ends little more than fleshy stumps. The remains of her lower legs in the smaller sack, but her hands and head were missing. Who she was? They didn’t know. She had no papers, no birthmark and matched no missing person. A few things were certain; with the ground sodden but the parcel damp, as the rain had ceased by 4am, her body had been dumped shortly after that. With bruises on her thighs, arms and shins, her death was preceded by a violent struggle. And with her pallid skin slipping off her bloated body and flies feeding off her festering blood, as they lay maggots in her rotting meat, judging by the corpse’s decay, she had been dead for at least 30 hours, putting her time of death as during the air-raid. Obviously, she had been murdered. But for Dr Cabe, her method of death was truly perplexing, as this was not the work of a crazed maniac absorbed in a killing frenzy, this was someone with patience. Her hands, legs and head had been severed by a swift single strike, using a sharp instrument (possibly an axe), wielded by a powerful man with a great degree of skill and a solid knowledge of anatomy. And yet, with small blood spots on her heart indicating she had died of asphyxia; with all of her internal organs being healthy but pale - before she died - she had bled, losing almost two pints of blood. Which begs the question: why were the cuts so clean and efficient, and yet her death was painful and slow? To answer that, they needed to know who she was. On a scrap of brown paper, stitched to her chemise, her killer had crudely scrawled the words “bloody Belgian”, only with the spelling being so atrocious, it actually read "Blodie Belgiam". With the war at its peak, hostilities high and everyone seen as either an ally or an enemy, was this a political attack? Although the sacks were stencilled with ‘Argentina La Plata Cold Storage’, with thousands distributed across London by the city’s butchers, they weren’t unique. Thankfully, sewn into the lining of the red bedsheets was a laundry mark which was – it simply read ‘11H’. The mark had been made by Leavery Laundry at 20 Charlotte Street and the bedsheets were owned by Emilienne Gerard. Last seen on the night of the air-raid, Police entered her home at 50 Munster Square, accompanied by the noted pathologist Bernard Spilsbury, who examined the two-roomed lodging; the door was locked, the rooms were in disarray and the drawers had been ransacked. With a splash of blood on the bedhead, a small red puddle in the middle and its bedsheet missing, having spotted an identical selection of red bedsheets stitched with laundry mark ‘11H’, a connection had been made between the bed and the body. So surely this is where the murder had occurred? With ragged shreds of coarse muslin sacking in the cupboard, strands of thick twine on the floor, a flick of blood spots on two doors, a half full pail of pinkish water and sticky red stains splashed across the table, with the blood being human, it looked as if this was where her murder and dismemberment had taken place. But the evidence didn’t sit well with Spilsbury - something just wasn’t right. If this was a burglary, how did they get in, if they didn’t break in? If this was a dismemberment, where were the knives and the axes? If this was a political attack on a “Bloody Belgian”, why had they targeted a shy, quiet and introverted French lady with no political beliefs or leanings, a lonely lady who only ever wanted to be loved? And if this was a murder, where was the blood? Having been decapitated within an hour of her death; with her arms, legs and head severed – although a small pail of pinkish water suggested a half-hearted clean-up had taken place – as her arteries ripped and her veins split during this violent struggle, walls would be splashed, doors splattered, tables dripped and the bed drenched, as (squelching under foot) the carpet would be a thick slick of sticky red ooze, swarming with feverish flies. But it wasn’t. If anything, it looked as if the two rooms at 50 Munster Square had been staged. With her husband at war, her father in France, Marguerite in Marseilles and no other family close by, Police contacted her only known friend; whose love-letters were found in a drawer, an IOU for £50 signed by him on the table, whose portrait proudly hung over the mantelpiece, and as a powerfully built French butcher who lived just three streets south, Louis Voisin was a very credible suspect. Although he spoke very little English, Chief Inspector Wensley interviewed Louis Voisin. He was polite, helpful and calm. With an alibi for the thirty-six hours around Emilienne’s death, he stated “I last saw Madame Gerrard between two and three pm on Wednesday 31st, with a young French girl named Marguerite Dufour, who (I am told) intended to go to Marseilles. Madame Gerrard was to accompany her as far as Southampton. In her absence, she asked me to visit her home to feed her cat”. All of which was verified by his friends, family, lodgers, colleagues and his girlfriend Berthe Roche. He loved Emilienne, he missed Emilienne and (even though the portly love-rat juggled a romance with two women who he kept apart) it was clear that he adored them both and would hurt neither. Only, his story had holes. On Friday 2nd November 1917, aided by his English-speaking nephew Leon Duvat, Louis Voisin told Emilienne’s landlady Mary Rouse that she had gone to France for two weeks. Except on the night of the Zeppelin air-raid, Mary heard her in her flat; she was nervously pacing, and at a little after 11:30pm (as the air-raid sirens wailed) Emilienne left 50 Munster Square alone and was carrying no luggage. With Berthe unable to recall if the bloody overalls she washed was due to a bullock he slaughtered in Whitechapel, or a calf he cut-up in Surbiton - two events which occurred three days apart – on a hunch, Chief Inspector Wensley asked Louis to write, five times, these two words - “Bloody Belgian”. The handwriting was a match and his spelling was atrocious having mistakenly written "Blodie Belgiam". When Dr Spilsbury stood on the fly-infested sticky stone-floor of the dark and gloom basement at 101 Charlotte Street, the pathologist knew this was the scene of Emilienne’s murder and dismemberment. With a broken glass panel on the door between the kitchen and the yard; its wood speckled with fine spots, specks inside the hinge and blood splattered a two foot radius, spraying up the sink, the gas-stove and even the ceiling, he knew the attack had taken place by the open door. Seeing a bloodied towel hanging up, inside were found strands of long brown hair (an exact match to Emilienne’s) and a pearl earring, caught in the towel, which had been used to muffle her screams. With a bloody trail from the door to the stables, having dragged her body, her disposal was shielded by the blackout, low fog and the cacophony of bombs, guns and sirens. Surrounded by knives, saws and axes, on a thick oak table, he had hacked Emilienne to bits. And with her torso and limbs wrapped in muslin sacks, no-one would suspect a butcher, on his horse and cart, as he travelled from Charlotte Street to Smithfield Market, stopping off half-way at Regent Square, where the body parts were found. Inside; in a tub, they found his blood-soaked shirt which a terrified Berthe had tried to wash, hidden in a secret panel by the mantelpiece was a stash of Emilienne’s jewellery, and in a large barrel, peeping through a thick layer of sawdust (her mouth open, her eyes wide and her neck a bloody stump) Police found the head of Emilienne Gerard. On either side, her two severed hands, as if reaching for help. On 6th November 1917, at 4:25pm, for the wilful murder of Emilienne Gerard, Chief Inspector Wensley arrested and charged the love-rat Louis Voisin… and his girlfriend Berthe Roche. On 15th January 1918, at the Old Bailey, they both stood trial; Louis described as a powerful imposing brute, Berthe as weak, pale and pathetic. When asked how he pleaded, Louis stated “not guilty”. When asked how she pleaded, Louis slammed his fists on the table and growled “Madame Roche is innocent, she is a pure as the driven snow”, stating “her only crime is her selfless love for me”. Only the Police knew better… and they could prove it. One question had plagued the investigation into Emilienne’s death: “why were her cuts so clean and efficient, and yet her death was painful and slow?” Louis Voisin was a love rat, with a girlfriend and a mistress carefully kept three streets apart, and although unaware of each other, both women were strikingly similar, being frail, pale and lonely. At 11:30pm, on 31st October 1917, with the distant bangs of bombs drawing ever closer as Zeppelin airships loomed overheard, as Berthe shook, so did Emilienne. Terrified, she ran to Charlotte Street to seek safety in her lover’s arms, only opening his door, she found Louis in the arms of another. Mistress met girlfriend, a love-rat was exposed, but loving him unquestionably, their hatred was for each other. His women fought, his ladies screamed and the love-rat tried to break it up, but raging with jealousy, Berthe grabbed a fire-poker and smashed her rival over the head. Bloodied but only dazed, as Berthe’s strike was too weak, Emilienne screamed, so as Louis muffled her pained howls with a towel, Berthe feebly struck her victim six more times – Emilienne’s face a bloody mess, and yet, she was still alive. Forced to make a fatal decision, Louis grabbed the poker and (as he would to a bullock) with a single powerful strike, he ended her life. His mistress was dead, and his girlfriend was guilty. Desperate to protect her, he dismembered the body, disposed of the bits and created a subterfuge to throw the Police of the culprit – his beloved Berthe. After a three day trial, on 18th January 1918, Louis Voisin was found guilty of murder and Berthe Roche was found guilty as “an accessory to murder”, his gallantry for his girlfriend having swayed the jury. On 2nd March 1918, in Pentonville Prison, Louis Voisin was executed by hanging, his girlfriend - having been spared a death sentence - she showed no pity or remorse. And having been sentenced to seven years in prison, as a nervous women, she was driven insane and died in Liverpool Asylum one year later. Never once shedding a single tear for her victim, or the love rat who had saved her life. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget murky milers, stay tuned for extra goodies after the break, but before that, here’s my recommended podcasts of the week; which are True-Crime Finland and True-Crime Fix. (PROMO) A huge thank you goes out to my new Patreon supporters, who are Clive Lewis, Ian Watts, Maria Dean and Stacy Kielczynski (Keel-Gin-Ski), who will be treated to some seriously good goodies, many of which are only available via Patreon. Sorry, but cakes don’t buy themselves you know. A little shout-out this week to a new true-crime podcast; so hi to Jeru and Stanley of Bad in the Boondocks, it’s a new podcast so give it a go. And just to say, to anyone going to the London true-crime meet-up on Sunday 7th and Monday 8th July, hosted by Generation Why and They Walk Among Us, I will be there. Sadly I can’t make it to the Manchester one, as some of us work on Sundays. 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. Thank you for listening and sleep well.
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 as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0.
The music featured in this episode include:
SOUNDS Cannon Fire - https://freesound.org/people/gim-audio/sounds/28645/ Engine Noise - https://freesound.org/people/Nexotron/sounds/371282/ Police Whistle - https://freesound.org/people/klankbeeld/sounds/242537/ Zeppelin Motor - https://freesound.org/people/Johnnyfarmer/sounds/209770/ *** 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 ***
Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tor 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 50 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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