Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast #111: The Scattered Remains of Hannah Brown (James Greenacre & Sarah Gale)
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Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND ELEVEN:
On Wednesday 28th December 1836 at roughly 2pm, off Pineapple Place in Maida Vale, the dismembered torso of an unidentified lady was discovered hidden behind a paving stone. With no arms, no legs and no head, her identity was impossible to determine, but the investigation and discovery of subsequent body parts unearthed one of the most brutal murders in British history.
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of Pineapple Place, near Pineapple Gate where the torso of Hannah Brown was found is located where the red triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos of the locations for Ep111: The Scattered Remains of Hannah Brown. To the left is the footage by the Maida Hill tunnel where Pineapple Place once stood and where the torso of Hannah Brown was found and on the right is Stepney Lock where her head was found.
This video 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.
Top to bottom and left to right: the rough location of Pineapple Place where the torso of Hannah Brown was found, Stepney Lock where her head was found, The Angel pub where the pre-wedding drinks were to take place, St Giles In The Fields Church where the wedding was to take place, an example of Hannah's home and the villas near Pineapple Place.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK 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.
This case was researched using the original court documents from the Old Bailey, as well as many other sources.
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
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 and beyond the West End.
Today’s episode is about Hannah Brown, a hard-working sweet-natured widow in her twilight years of her life who was looking to settle down, set-up shop and move to America with her loving husband-to-be. Every part of her dream came true, only what she found wasn’t happiness, but death.
Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details. And as a dramatization 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 111: The Scattered Remains of Hannah Brown.
Today I’m standing by the Maida Hill tunnel, just off Edgware Road, W2; four blocks north of the seedy hotel where Agnes Mary Walsh met her demise at the hands of the Sad Faced Killer, three blocks north of the odd suicide pact of Lieutenant Colonel Felic Sterbe, one street north-east of the floating suitcase found to have been stuffed with the suffocated corpse of Marta Ligman, and one street west of the unsolved and deeply troubling death of Amala De Vere Whelan - coming soon to Murder Mile.
Situated within tooting distance of the dingy squalor of Paddington station, running parallel with the busy roar of Edgware Road and skirting the eastern edge of the last stretch of the Grand Union Canal is a series of long elegant avenues comprising of opulent white-stone villas for the seriously wealthy.
As a former hunting ground known as Tyburnia, around the 1830’s when construction began, although it was only one and a half miles from Marble Arch and the Tyburn Gallows (which marked the entrance to the city), this part of Maida Vale was still regarded as countryside. One of the few thoroughfares of which was Edgware Road, and a few yards from this spot stood a toll-booth called Pineapple Gate.
Of course - except for the avenues, the canal and the tunnel - very little still exists of the woodland, the toll-booth or the exact location at Canterbury Villas where this first grisly discovery took place.
This is a gentle canal-side walk, where couples drained of conversation beyond the occasional grunt toss scraps of focaccia to the disapproving ducks, sip a glass of house white as the trucks thunder by, drool over the houses no-one could never hope to buy (if they actually pay their taxes) and dream of a better life in a bigger house… only stuck with the same old misery-guts. But then again, that is love.
To many, love is for life. But to some, love is brief, convenient and a necessary evil to a quick solution.
By Christmas 1836, fifty-year-old widow Hannah Brown had found happiness, love and (after years of hard-work and heart-ache) she was about to fulfil the dreams which she truly deserved. She felt alive, whole and complete, and yet – with her life cruelly cut-short - her arms, legs and head were missing.
As it was here, on Wednesday 28th December 1836, just off Pineapple Place, that the first piece of Hannah Brown was found, and unveiled one of the most brutal murders in British history (interstitial)
There was never a lovelier lady than that of Hannah Brown, as said every single one of her friends and neighbours, and although - in death - pleasantries are readily spoken, in Hannah’s case this was true.
Hannah Brown was born Hannah Gay in the spring of 1776. Raised in the rural peace of the market town of Wymondham (in Norfolk), it was a place famed for brush-making. Coming from an aspirational lower middle-class family, Hannah was the second eldest child to a school master and a seamstress, who blessed their children – Mary, Hannah, Sarah, Rebecca and William – with a solid education, the skills to survive life and – more importantly – a level of politeness, decency and a strong work ethic.
Being a real mix of both parents, Hannah was a strong stout woman who stood five-foot eight inches tall; with a long pale face, short thick teeth and brown hair down to her waist, with a high-chest, strong limbs and large hands. She was gentile, polite and elegant, but with a man’s physical strength.
Described as friendly and warm, being blessed with so many faithful friends who would remain by her side through thick and thin, Hannah always had a song in her heart, a spring in her step and - no matter what, being so strong-willed - she would be prepared for everything that life would throw at her.
By the turn of the 1800’s, Hannah was married; she was in love, happy and although accepting of the cruel fact that she could never bear children – she had a loving husband and a happy future ahead. But barely a few years later, Hannah was alone, childless and a widow, aged just twenty-three.
By the 1810’s, Hannah had remarried and – once more - he was a good man who loved her dearly, but bad luck would strike again, and by the time she was in her mid-thirties, she had been widowed twice.
As before, her friends and family rallied round, and with her grief dampened by a £400 inheritance which would keep this smart frugal lady safe and secure for a good long while, she didn’t need to remarry, but knowing that she loved to be loved, she worried that her love life was forever doomed.
Having buried her second husband, shortly afterwards her brother-in-law was tragically killed leaving his pregnant wife a widow, who (unable to cope) was committed to an asylum. Hannah had no experience as a parent, but being a devoted god-mother, her warmth and compassion came naturally, she raised Mary-Ann as her own and often referred to this young sweet girl as “my daughter”. Mary-Ann would flourish and thrive as a hatmaker in Yarmouth, and it was all down to Hannah.
By her forties, having moved to London’s West End and being an independent woman, Hannah earned her income as housekeeper to Mr Perrin, a hatter and Mr Oliver, an anchor-maker, all who hailed her as an asset. But keen to become her own boss, Hannah purchased a brand-new mangle off a carpenter called Mr Ward on nearby Chenies Street and became a washer woman. A physically demanding job which took skill and strength, but it wasn’t just to earn an income, it was to get her nearer her goal.
In the parishes of Soho and Fitzrovia, Hannah was well-known, well-loved and easy to spot by her distinctive look; even if age had added a few wrinkles, a salt & pepper hue to her long hair and (in an accident with a fellow maid) had left a tear in the lobe of her left ear when an earring was ripped out.
Elegantly dressed in a black silk cloak, a hand-woven shawl and a long black boa, she didn’t dress like a typical washer-woman, but again, she didn’t dress like someone pretending to be who she wasn’t. She was a decent, kind and staunchly sober woman, who worked incredibly hard to save every penny so she could fulfil her dream of buying a little shop of her own to sell fruits and pastries.
By the winter of 1836, having started with a series of tragedies, the life of fifty-year-old Hannah Brown was looking rather rosy. She was happy, healthy and having fallen in love with a young widower - who loved her without question, he had asked her to marry him on Christmas Day and the two planned to emigrate to his farmstead in Canada - this is where she would spend the rest of her life…
…only, when the world was celebrating Christmas, Hannah was being hacked to bits.
Wednesday 28th December 1836 was a bitterly cold day. The wind was bitingly crisp, the canal was solid with ice and a thick layer of snow speckled the frozen ground. So cold was the earth that the workmen in Tyburnia had to wait to lay the pathways till the midday sun had softened the soil.
At a little after 2pm, by the toll booth at Pineapple Gate, a builder called Robert Bond was returning to work when he spotted a four-foot long by three-foot wide paving slab propped against the wall of Canterbury Villas. It had been there for exactly four days, only now, it was hiding a large hessian sack.
With frosted breath, as Robert heaved the brown coarsely-woven bag (which was as big and bulky as a small sack of coal), a slight tearing ripped at its sticky base as the leaking red liquid from within had frozen the sack to the cold-stone floor, leaving a vivid pool which was unmistakably blood.
Alerting a policeman, PC Samuel Peglar arrived at the scene at 2:10pm, and when he held the lip of the sack, unwound its string cord (held in place by several crudely poked eyelets) and as the wide mouth of the sack gaped open, he gasped, as inside he witnessed the aftermath of an act of pure evil.
Pale, naked and partially frozen, it was unmistakably a woman’s body, only with no arms, no legs and no head, it was just a torso. Being large framed, loose-skinned and high-breasted, her age was hard to fathom but early fifties seemed about right. With no birth-marks, her identity was impossible to tell. And missing two-thirds of her body, her cause of death was unknown. But whoever had hacked her to pieces had done so crudely (by ripping jagged tears through her thighs, arms and neck), but as the old rusty blade snagged and stalled half-way through - with brute force – each bone was pressed and bent till it snapped like twigs, leaving five jagged sticks poking out of the tatty stumps of her corpse.
Requisitioning a barrow, the body was carted to the Paddington Police station on Hermitage Street (where it was preserved in vinegar) along with the hessian sack and the wood shavings at its base, but as no-one had been reported missing, the unidentified torso at Pineapple Gate was a mystery.
In the months leading up to Christmas 1836, Hannah Brown’s life was good, in fact it was very good.
Blessed with powerful arms, large hands and a solid work ethic, Hannah was a savvy woman who knew how to run a business well. With a new mangle, a warm fire and constant pots of boiling water on the stove, from the ground-floor at 45 Union Street in Fitzrovia, she worked in the front parlour, lived in the back, and although frugal, she was always kind and elegant, with her sights on a little pastry shop.
With her parents dead, her sisters back in Norfolk and her god-daughter all grown-up, Hannah’s only family was her little brother William – who worked as a broker to Mrs Blanchard at 10 Goodge Street – and although they lived just one street apart – for whatever reason – they rarely spoke.
And yet, as a truly lovely lady, Hannah was never short of old friends, new pals… and now, a male admirer.
On an unspecified date in October 1836, while her mangle was being repaired by the carpenter Mr Ward on nearby Chenies Street and she was ordering a hessian sack of wood shavings to stoke her fire, it was there that she first set eyes on a very dashing gentleman called James Greenacre.
Being a charming forty-two-year-old businessman with sorrowful eyes, a distinguished nose and a kind smile, whose curly brown hair and tatty side-burns were in dire need of a lady’s finesse, although they looked an odd fit – as he was a few inches shorter, a good deal thinner and eight years younger than Hannah – the couple were instantly smitten, having found their soul-mate with a lot in common.
Equally being as unlucky in love, where-as Hannah had grieved by the graves of two husbands, living a short but harder life, James had lost three wives and had buried four of his seven children. And just like Hannah, although money could never replace a loved-one, he was financially secure having bought several houses in Camberwell (South London) and a one-thousand-acre farm off Canada’s Hudson Bay.
Neither of them needed to remarry, but finding a kinship together, they both loved to be loved.
Near the end of November 1836, James Greenacre proposed to Hannah Brown and she accepted. As devout Catholics, they had their wedding banns published by the minister of St Giles-in-the-Fields church on the 27th November, 4th December and 11th December and planning a little libation with a few friends next door at The Angel public house, they would be married at St Giles on Christmas Day.
It was the epitome of a whirlwind romance. As a delightful couple, united in grief, who’d found love later in life and chose to be wed surrounded by a handful of Hannah’s dearest friends, as under a twinkling blanket of snow, Mr & Mrs Greenacre would emerge to jubilant bells and Christmas hymns.
So smitten was Hannah, that although her plan was to sell-off her mangle, pack-up her clothes and wisely invest her inheritance in a little pastry shop in Fitzrovia, now she had a new dream. To pack-up, to marry, to move to Canada with her beloved husband James and to live the life that this wonderful woman truly deserved. She had no debts, no children and no responsibility. There was no real reason for Hannah to remain in England, so why not leave the smoggy drizzle behind and finally be happy?
On Wednesday 21st December, four days before her nuptials, Hannah visited her brother William to inform him of her plans to emigrate, but – for whatever reason – he wasn’t invited to the wedding.
On Thursday 22nd December, Hannah introduced James to her best friends Mr & Mrs Davis over a light supper in the Davis’s home at 45 Bartholomew Close in Smithfield. The conversation was cordial, the couple sat hand-in hand on the sofa and the Davis’ were ecstatic at the news that (with no parents of her own) Hannah wanted Mr Davis to give her away and Mrs Davis to be her bridesmaid. Both were delighted and honoured, if a little tearful at the thought of losing contact with their good friend, but James assured them that they would always welcome, at any time, to stay with them in Hudson Bay.
And with that, although Hannah was a sober woman who never drank, instead she raised a goblet of water as the foursome of friends toasted the glorious wedding and bright future of Hannah Brown and her new beau. At 10pm they left, smiling, happy and walking arm-in-arm towards Newgate Prison.
On the Christmas Eve of 1836, with the ground freshly sprinkled with a smattering of crisp snow, the festival smell of mulled wine and roasted chestnuts teasing every sniffly nose, and the joyous hum as carols were carried on the misty air, Hannah had finished packing-up her life at 45 Union Street. Her mangle was gifted to an old friend, her furniture was sold, the keys were returned, the rent was paid, her customers were thanked and her two rooms was left clean and ready for the next tenant.
At 12pm, Hannah called on Catherine Glass, a friend and washer-woman who lived on Windmill Street to drop off an overnight bag and her wedding dress, so she could spend (as tradition decrees) her last night of freedom away from her husband-to-be. Hannah’s mood was bright, happy and beaming.
At 3pm, wearing her black silk cloak, black boa and distinctive white shawl, as well as two elegant
pearl drop earrings worn a little higher owing to the old tear in her left ear lobe, James and the coachman loaded Hannah’s three trunks into a horse-drawn carriage, and she left Union Street forever.
By the next morning, at St Giles, Hannah was due to be married to the man that she loved …
…but instead, her cold dead corpse had been crudely dismembered.
So, what went wrong?
James Greenacre was a lover and a liar. As a serial widower with three dead wives, all of whom he had met, hastily married and were all older and wealthier than himself, each one (whether by disease, fever or accident) had died young and left him as the sole beneficiary of their estates. And where-as Hannah had frugally saved the nest-egg which she had been bequeathed, James liked to spend.
He bought a pub in Woolwich, a house in West Ham, a terrace in Camberwell, and (supposedly) a large farm in Hudson Bay, although no-one ever saw it. Prone to dodgy deals, often dabbling in untaxed tea, he had fled to America with a wife and four children, but by August 1836, only he returned to London.
On an unspecified date two months later, James overheard a carpenter called Mr Ward chatting to a lovely but lonely lady who planned to purchase a little pastry shop with her £400 widow’s inheritance.
James was instantly smitten with Hannah, and where-as she loved to be loved, all he loved was money. Marriage was the fastest route to legally acquire it. And to him, it didn’t matter that he wasn’t single.
Four years earlier, whilst married to his third wife, as a serial philanderer, James also had a thirty-five-year-old mistress called Sarah Gale, together they had a son and they planned to elope to Canada. He needed money, Hannah’s money and marriage was the key… only something went horribly wrong.
Late on Christmas Eve, as Mr & Mrs Davis picked-up a cut of mutton for the post-wedding roast, they bumped into James on Tottenham Court Road. He was agitated, flushed and barked “the wedding’s off”, rambling about how Hannah was “debt-ridden”, “morally-loose” and a “drunk”, as he barged by the aghast couple with a few borrowed tools under his arm, all tied-up in a brown hessian sack.
His accusations were untrue, they knew that, but without Hannah here, how could they prove it?
Six hours earlier everything had started so well, as James loaded onto a horse-drawn carriage the three heavy trunks full of her worldly possessions – such as some silks, pottery and trinkets, all of which would fetch a pretty price, as well as a pair of pearl earrings, a gold pocket-watch and details of her inheritance – as they trotted out of Union Street for the very last time, with James lovingly wrapping a warm shawl around her shoulders, to shield his cash-cow from the cold, as the couple headed south.
Over the next hour, as the carriage clip-clopped over the River Thames, they kissed and cuddled as James regaled Hannah with the false hopes of what their new life together would be. All of it was true – the home, the marriage, the ship to Canada – only the woman he wanted by his side was his mistress.
At 5pm, the carriage pulled into Carpenter’s Place in Camberwell; a tightly-packed terrace of slightly dilapidated houses with broken bricks, shattered tiles and cracked windows. As landlord, James owned them all, but being in arrears and ready to default, he had no plans to repair them, or even to stay.
As he dragged the trunk’s dead-weight into the dark gloom of house number six, happy that none of the neighbours had seen them, James closed the door and shuttered the windows to hide his crime.
Only, this wasn’t a murder, but adultery. James was a coward, plain-and-simple, who was no better at brutality than he was as a businessman. After the marriage, he wouldn’t kill her, he would fleece her and flee on a fast ship with his mistress Sarah and their son, leaving Hannah broke, alone and tearful.
That was James’ plan… or so he would claim. Only Hannah didn’t know that, and neither did Sarah.
Keen to spend Christmas Eve with the man they loved, that evening, the two women met for the very first time. They argued, they cried and - according to James – being a bit drunk, Hannah swung in her chair, fell backwards, hit her head on the fireplace and - out of blind panic - he disposed of her body.
Of course, being a liar, her autopsy would tell a different story.
Being seated at the time of the attack, with a cup of tea in her belly and no defensive wounds, Hannah was struck from behind with a heavy blunt object. With a force so hard she headbutted the table, it snapped her nose, split her skull and detached her right eye from the socket, so the ruptured eyeball dangled down the pale skin of her bleeding cheek. Conscious but dazed, as she steadied herself to sit upright, she saw two sights - her bloodied lap and James with a log – as across her swollen lumpen face, he struck again, fracturing both sides of her jaw, as she slumped hard onto the cold stone floor.
And as this grieving widow, loyal friend and kindly god mother lay in a contorted heap, with her dreams now as shattered as the bones in her face, James slit her throat and stood as she rasped her last breath.
A short while later, having stashed a few rusty tools in a hessian sack from the shop of Mr Ward the mangle-maker, as he barked to Mr & Mrs Davis “the wedding’s off”, Hannah Brown was already dead.
Across the snowy Christmas night, as joyous carols drifted in the foggy air, behind the dark shutters of 6 Carpenter’s Place, a young boy endlessly wailed at the sights he was seeing. As sat atop of a table, with a fresh corpse below his knees, as the old rusty saw he had stolen was barely sharp enough to rip the muscle and sinew, but was too blunt to sever through her neck, perching the corpse’s head over the edge, his father - James – pressed and bent with all of his force, until the fifth vertebrae went snap.
Crudely, her limbs were severed likewise, as (quickly recovering from the shock of such a savage death) Sarah picked over the dead woman’s belongings, like a famished vulture pecking at a rotting carcase.
On Christmas Day, James bagged up the bits; the head in a silk handkerchief, her limbs in a tradesman’s bag and her torso in a brown hessian sack, as at the base lay a scattering of wood shavings.
On Boxing Day, he boarded a horse-drawn carriage bus with a blue tradesman’s bag and - in separate journeys - discarded the bits of his betrothed far across the city – in the West, the East and the South – with her limbs later found in a field in Brixton, her severed head blocking the canal lock in Stepney and her frozen torso hidden behind a large stone paving slab by the toll-booth at Pineapple Gate.
Having neither heard a peep from Hannah or James since Christmas Eve - believing she had either fled in shame, eloped in joy, or (as she had originally planned) was living overseas - no-one reported her missing. So, for the next few months, having preserved it in vinegar, the head of Hannah Brown was put on display in a pickling jar at the Paddington Workhouse, but no-one was able to identify her…
Not until three months later, when hearing word that the mysterious severed head had salt & pepper hair, short thick teeth and a healed slit down her left ear-lobe – although the bloodless skull was gaunt and deformed – William identified it as his sister and James Greenacre was arrested. (End)
On the evening of Sunday 24th March 1837, having obtained a warrant, Inspector George Feltham entered a rented lodging at 1 St Alban's Place in Kennington, where he found James and Sarah in bed together. To the side were three large trunks stuffed full of the deceased’s worldly possessions; a black silk cloak, a black boa, a distinctive white shawl, and – of the pieces they hadn’t pawned off, such as rings, gowns and handkerchiefs – were the gold pinchbeck pocket-watch and the set of pearl earrings.
The Policeman’s timing was very fortuitous, as having already booked a ship’s passage for the next day, by the break of dawn, James, Sarah and their son would have set sail to Canada – never to return.
Upon his arrest, having become a media sensation especially in the trashy penny-dreadfuls which lapped up every gory detail of the corpse’s demise, although James relished his new-found fame – like a coward - he stuck to his story about an accident and he branded Hannah as drunk, loose and in debt.
On 10th April 1837, James Greenacre and Sarah Gale were tried at the Old Bailey. Sarah as an accessory after the fact and James for wilful murder, to which they both pleaded ‘not guilty’. But after a two-day trial, having deliberated for just two minutes, the jury returned a unanimous verdict of guilty.
Sarah Gale was transported to Australia where she would live for the rest of her life. Where-as, on the 2nd May 1837 at Newgate Prison, at the hands of an equally sadistic executioner such as he, known as William Calcraft, James Greenacre entertained the baying crowds with a dangle and an odd little dance at the end of a taut hemp rope, until – after six interminably long minutes – his feet stopped twitching.
His death was agonisingly slow, but for the greedy few who sold grisly memorabilia, it was profitable.
But this story isn’t his. Hannah Brown was a lovely lady with dreams of living the life which she truly deserved. She was strong, smart and independent. She didn’t need to marry, but she loved to be loved, so in her twilight years, she knew she didn’t wish to be alone. She thought she had found the perfect man, a loving widower who was so similar to her in so many ways, but all he ever loved was her money.
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.
If you’ve not been too grossed-out by the grisly details of the scattered remains of Hannah Brown, there are a lot more details which didn’t make it into the episode which I can share with you in the next instalment of Extra Mile after the break, as well as some of the usual nonsense.
Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporter who is Fiona Montgomery, I thank you very much, as well as a thank you to Selina Dean for your very kind donation via the Murder Mile e-shop. Plus a big thank you to everyone who sent lovely messages saying how much they enjoyed How To Get Away With Murder. It was a much-needed deviation from the usual Murder Mile gloom, which we all need at the moment (given how crappy the year’s been) so I’m glad you liked it.
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.
*** 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, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
*** LEGAL DISCLAIMER
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", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk.
Michael 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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