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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND THIRTY:
Today’s episode is about the investigation into the death of Joseph Wootton. Was it an accident, or was it a murder? As although his peculiar death was resolved in a court of law and the culprit caught, the question which stumped the Police wasn’t how did he die, but why?
THE LOCATION
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 former location of the Sardinia Buildings and the back of Wild Court, where the body of Joseph Wootton was found, is marked with a lime green cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your knowledge of the case. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
SOURCES: The Old Bailey archive, trial of Michael Joseph Holland MUSIC:
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 the investigation into the death of Joseph Wootton. Was it an accident, or was it a murder? As although his peculiar death was resolved in a court of law and the culprit caught, the question which stumped the Police wasn’t how did he die, but why? 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 130: The Falling Man. Today I’m standing in Wild Court, WC2; two roads north of the brutal baker Alexander Moir, one road south of the First Date Killer’s home, one road west of where Mary Ann Moriarty dispatched her boozy beau, and a short walk south from the strange case of Annie Poke – coming soon to Murder Mile. Squirreled away from the hectic bustle of Covent Garden market, and squeezed amidst the forgotten grey gloom of Wild Street, Kemble Street and Kingsway sits Wild Court; a thin dark alley snuck between the backs of the Freemason’s Hall and CityLit, like a cruel after-thought by the town-planners. Being barely ten feet wide and with only a crack of sky peeping through the concrete monsters above, Wild Court is so depressing that the rats can’t be arsed, the fleas have resigned, any wee-wee stains have widdled-away and even Covid is claiming sick-pay. It truly is the epitome of a dead-end. Demolished to make way for the Kingsway Tramline – the 20th century’s very own CrossRail, seen back then as a wasteful folly which lacked value, purpose and only lined the pockets of CEO’s, any MPs on-the-take and a line which was later mothballed (coughs) – it looked identical in the 1890’s. With an entrance on Little Wild Street, Wild Court was the back of the Sardinia Buildings; a gigantic lodging house, five-storeys high, half-a-block wide and crammed-full of 150 little rooms for the city’s poorest. As a dark and squalid hell-hole for only for the most desperate; fights were frequent, screams were common and (drinking to dull the pain of their pitiful lives) violent assaults were a fact-of-life. But when a half-naked man was found slumped in the alley below - with cracked ribs, a broken back, deep cuts and rough dirty scuffs to his knees, hands and feet – it was clear to the Police that he had slipped, struggled and plummeted to his death. And yet, the real question was why did he have to die? As it was here, on the night of Friday 3rd March 1899, that Joseph Wootton fell to his death. But was this an accident, a murder, a mistake, or was an odd little friendship taken too far? (Interstitial) The mystery of the falling man began with very little mystery... “Friday 3rd March 1899, at roughly 12:30am, residents of the Sardinia Building at 19 to 21 Little Wild Street, a lodging house off Covent Garden, reported the sounds of shouting in the vicinity of Wild Court. The investigation was headed up by myself, Police Inspector William Crossman of Bow Street Station”. “Constable Francis Sale (PC142) and Constable Frederick Whittle (PC208), both of E Division were first on the scene. They met Mr Andrew Hutton, deputy manager of the lodging house and were brought to the rear of the building, a small back-alley known as Wild Court; it was unlit, dirty and unoccupied”. Initially, it looked like a false-lead, as too dark to see anything but the shifting shadows without a night-light, Wild Court was desolate, there was no man to be seen nor incident to be sensed. All the PCs could hear was a cascade of opening windows and the rhubarb of idle chatter echoing above, as a long line of eager fingers pointed down into the filthy hole below. Surrounded by iron railings - too thick to bend and too tall to climb - the PC spied a flash of white slumped on a dark jagged bed of broken bricks and rubbish. Accessed only by a key, there was no way to enter this recess, except from above. “PC Sale stated “on or about 12:45am, I saw a man lying where the occupants dump their waste. There was a great deal of blood pouring from his mouth, back and legs. He was alive, but only just, and he could not speak”. In fact, in the last moments he lived, he would barely utter a single word or syllable. Mugging was ruled-out, as if he had been attacked in the alley, why would anyone waste time lugging a fifteen-stone man over ten feet of railings to hide him on top of a bin? Burglary was discounted as only an idiot would scale a few flights of brick wall to enter a building, when the stairs were nearby. It may have been an accident, but no-one knew where he had fallen from. Suicide looked unlikely. And being a stranger, he had no reason to be there. But most baffling of all was his clothing... or lack of. “All he had on about his person was his shirt, nothing else, a white shirt ripped from his left armpit to the waist, and a few feet away was a pair of black trousers, dirty and bloodied, it was the right size to be his”. Although PC Sale would later state “I cannot say if they were there when I first saw the man”.” His lack of any underwear was not seen as suspicious, as this was an era before underpants were commonplace among the masses. But still, what was he doing there given that he was basically naked? “At a little before 1am, Dr Percy Levick, Police Surgeon escorted the unidentified man to King’s College Hospital. I arrived at 3am, and although insensible, 52-year-old Joseph Wootton of 13 Little George Street in Marylebone was able to impart his details to me, but very little else. He died at 7:45am”. The autopsy would prove what the Police had suspected. With his breath reeking of drink, his liver full and scratches on his knuckles, a drunken fight had occurred before the fall. With rough cuts scraping upwards on his chest, and long slashes from the underside of his biceps to his very tips of his fingers, - in staggered sections - he had fought to retain his grip of a window-sill, but inch-by-inch, he had lost. Struggling to clamber back inside the building, his bare feet had several layers of skin grated away by the wall’s rough bricks, the red-raw flesh of his heels had been peeled back and folded upwards, two toe-nails had been ripped-out by the root and the skin of his right big toe was entirely degloved. Based on his injuries, he had fallen forty-to-fifty feet, roughly four stories. And although, a sovereign-sized wound had resulted in a skull fracture and unconsciousness, this was not the cause of his death. Having landed in a seated position, and hit the hard bricks with a dead-stop, the jagged bed of rubble had pierced his buttocks and thighs, as the bulk of his body slammed-down upon it. So, in a swift fast smack; six ribs had snapped, one of which had skewered his right lung, but even that hadn’t killed him. With all of the fall’s energy focussed on a single spot, slamming down hard, it shattered his 12th dorsal vertebra, crushed his spine, ruptured his spinal cord and exploded sharp fragments of bone out of his broken back, leaving him paralysed from the chest down and haemorrhaging internally. Even if they could have saved him – which they couldn’t - the second his body had hit the bricks, his life was over. But before the autopsy taken place, the investigation had proven to be relatively straight forward: “Upon arrival, officers questioned the neighbours. Mrs Elizabeth Bowman of Room 85, on the fourth floor, overlooking Wild Court, stated “at 11pm, we heard two men quarrelling, I heard one call the other a bastard”. Other witnesses corroborated this, and Mrs Ruth Serle of 3 Sardinia Place, said “from my kitchen, I heard the two men yelling, it was coming from Room 84, the nearest window to mine”.” Within minutes, the investigation had identified a time and a place for the moments leading up to the death of Joseph Wootton, all of which pointed to a logical conclusion – two drunken men had a fight. “Just shy of 12:30am, Miss Caroline Frood of Room 79, across the corridor from Room 84, heard what she described as “shouting from inside the room, I opened my door and I heard a man cry out ‘I am bested’, I then heard a sort of pained cry of despair”. Other neighbours confirm this. Shortly after, Annie & Thomas Rich of Room 32, three floors below, heard “shouting, then a great thud, I got my lamp, looked down, and saw a man lying in the basement, he was vomiting and covered in blood”.” With everyone pointing to Room 84 as the fight’s point of origin - a room four stories high with a window that overlooked Wild Court and the basement below - even though the falling man had no known reason to be there, behind that locked door lay either a key-witness or a potential perpetrator. But who was the occupant, what happened that night, and why did he want this man dead? Given the era, there was nothing particularly remarkable about Joseph Wootton. Joe was born in 1847 in the parish of St Giles, in or near Covent Garden. Described as a general dealer, he sold whatever sold to feed his family. He had five children with his first wife - Joseph, Helen, Maria, Henry and William – but being widowed, he remarried Emily, a woman half his age, and together they had a one-month-old son called Charles and at the time of his death, she was expecting their seventh. With money tight, all nine shared a small bed in a single room at 13 Little George Street in Marylebone, and on top of her hectic life as a full-time mum, Emily supplemented their meagre income as a cleaner. As a 52-year-old man, who was short and squat but powerfully-built, Joe’s age was against him, as he could no longer cart the goods as quick as the younger fellas. The couple had no savings, no home of their own, and what little money they had left, he squandered on drink. Wasn’t the best husband or father, but he wasn’t the worst, and he had a few minor convictions for being drunk and disorderly. In court, his widow Emily would state these three facts; “my husband is addicted to drink”, “I am aware of Michael Joseph Holland, they have been friends for fifteen years” and “I know of no reason why he should be sleeping at the Sardinia Buildings”, as his home was only a short walk away. But he was? As for Michael Joseph Holland? The two seemed like kindred spirits. Born in 1867, 32-year-old Michael was a Covent Garden porter with a wife called Ann, a 3-year-old called Thomas and a 1-year-old also called Ann. Likewise, he went where the work was, his family lived in a crowded lodging in Lambeth, he had a few convictions for drinking and fighting, and he squandered their savings. But for whatever reason - whether work or a marital split - he had rented a lodging at Room 84 of the Sardinia Buildings. The two men were old pals, similar in so many ways; who had no debts, rivalry or jealousy together. Thursday 2nd March 1899 began as an ordinary day. “The deceased’s wife, Emily Wootton stated “he left home about midday and did not return”, which was not uncommon, he finished his work in the fruit market about 7pm, therefore these timings are based on the sightings by potmen and publicans”. “Alfred Ashwell of The Grapes pub at 42 Sardinia Street, served both the prisoner (Michael Holland) and the deceased (Joseph Wootton) between 7 and 9pm. Being a hot-headed pair, they often drank to excess and engaged in fisticuffs, but such incidents were always resolved with neither man holding a grudge. At 9pm, a news-lad called Laurie Donovan saw both at The Hart on Drury Lane, stating “both were on good terms”. 10:30pm, both returned to The Grapes, had two glasses of ale and a penny worth of tobacco. They left at 10:45pm. Both were very drunk, but again, they left together as “good pals”. Just shy of 11pm, they entered the Sardinia Buildings on Little Wild Street, where (for the two weeks prior) Michael had rented a room. That was the last sighting of Joseph Wootton. 90 minutes later, his half-naked body would be found on a jagged pile of bricks with his limbs ripped and his back broken. “Witnesses corroborate that an argument began after 11pm. Mrs Bowman in Room 85, “I didn’t think much of it, it was very slight, one called the other a bastard”. Mrs Serle in the window opposite heard loud voices at 12pm but couldn’t make out the word. Miss Frood across the corridor heard a cry “I am bested” from inside Room 84, and Mr & Mrs Rich in 32 heard a thud and saw a body in the basement”. Illuminating the thin alley with his lantern, PC Whittle searched the length of Wild Court, but he found nothing; no weapons, no money and no clothes, just a smashed semi-clad man in a ripped white shirt. “My officers searched from top to bottom. I went to the roof to check if he had jumped, but the door was firmly locked, as was the basement. Immediately above the spot where the deceased was found, the prisoner's window was lighted, and corroborated by witnesses, that brought myself to Room 84”. First to approach the sturdy wooden door of Room 84 were PC’s Frederick Whittle and Francis Sale. They knocked, but got no reply. They knocked again, but again nothing. So, knocking hard, a gruff voice barked “who is it?”, Whittle replied “Police! Open up!”, at which the prisoner replied “F**k you!”. It was only when the officer threatened to force the door, that it was opened. Which begs the question, with his old pal Joseph smashed and dying four stories below, why was Michael so reluctant to help? Before the PCs stood Michael Holland; five foot seven inches tall, 32-years-old and well-built. Like Joseph, he was naked except for a white shirt, and his knuckles were scuffed with old blood and new. From the door, the PCs engaged the prisoner in the following conversation: PC “A man’s been found in the alley, without any clothes”, Holland: “I know nothing about him”, PC: “Have you seen a strange man, or any clothes lying about?”, Holland: “No! This is my trousers, if you wanna see ‘em?”, at which he jabbed his finger at a jacket, waistcoat, trousers, socks and boots piled on a chair, all black, all dirty. The prisoner was then asked “Who lives here with you?”, he replied “no-one, there’s no bastard living here, only me”. The room was small, the bed was unmade, the light was on and the window was open. With no evidence to directly link Joseph Wootton to Michael Holland or the argument in Room 84, the PCs continued a search of the building and reported their findings to inspector William Crossman. “The officers and myself accompanied Mr Hutton, the deputy of the lodging house, and examined by lantern light the water-closets and sinks. There is one on each floor and half-landing, but we found nothing in any of them”. But while the officers were occupied, Michael was engaged in skulduggery. At about the same time, James Hewitt, a portmanteau-maker who lived in Room 19, saw Michael stagger unsteadily down the stairs between the third and fourth floors. “I said "What are you doing here in only your shirt? If they’re your trousers you’ve got under your arm, why don't you put them on? You’ll have the women out on you, and then there will be a fine-to-do". But the prisoner gave no reply and staggered away, with the dirty-looking bundle looking much larger than a pair of trousers. Moments later, 14-year-old William, son of Elizabeth Bowman saw Michael return to his room, minus a large bundle. The officers were informed and a second search of the water-closets were conducted. This time, behind a third-floor sink, they found a set of threadbare socks and some scuffed black boots. On a half-landing, behind a toilet door (which earlier had opened with ease but now seemed to be stuck) they spied a waistcoat and a black jacket. And four stories below, slumped in a crumpled heap beside the bloodied and barely-breathing body of the fallen man lay a pair of black trousers. Although PC Sale would later state “I cannot say if they were there when I first saw the man”.” Only they weren’t. Which begs more questions, why hide the clothes and why deny that Joseph was there? No-one had seen either man in the room, so an alibi of an accident or self-defence could never be disproved. At 4:30am, Inspector Crossman knocked on the door to Room 84. Being sleepy but still a little worse for wear, Michael let the Police Inspector in. “I stated to the prisoner that a man named Joseph Wootton had been found on the brick rubbish below this window, and when asked to explain why, again he repeated that he knew nothing about the man or the incident”, which I knew to be untrue”. The evidence that a fight of some description had taken place was relatively clear. Across the rough hairy knuckles of Michael’s right-hand lay a series of welts and cuts from a fist-fight he claimed had occurred two weeks earlier. And although repeatedly he would lie, his body wouldn’t, so with his skin still swelling and the bruises still new, this particular fight was barely a few hours old. Likewise, a scratch on his forehead had struggled to heal, as every time his brow furrowed, the skin crinkled and ripped the slim red gash wider, sending a tiny drop of blood oozing from this fresh cut. And with stains spattering his shirt sleeve and the bed marked in a red pool which the Inspector stated was sticky, “when I made the prisoner aware that the blood on the sheet was damp”, he gave no reply”. Again, he denied a fight had been fought, that another man had slept in his bed, he shrugged off any knowledge of a second man, and he refuted any claim that the clothes were Joseph’s. Even though of the two low-crowned hats discovered in his room; one fitted his head perfectly, but the other did not. The cramped room was simple; it had a small bed, two wooden chairs, a window and a door. On inspection, the door was undamaged, but by the window, it was clear that a struggle had taken place. Beside the bed, a picture-frame lay face-down on the floor, its glass smashed. His bushel-baskets for hauling fruit to the market were tipped over. The curtain’s draw-string had snapped, as a weight had yanked the right curtain off its rail, leaving the left one trapped outside of the recently closed window. When asked why, he gave no answer. So, why did he hide the clothes, but didn’t clean up the room? Inspector Crossman examined the window: “I raised the sash; in the dust were fresh finger-marks on the woodwork, which scraped outwards and down along the stone. A stain ran along the centre of the sill, as if a heavy weight of flesh had been dragged over it. And on the outside wall, three feet below the sill were bloodied scratches in the brickwork, as if a bare-footed man had struggled to hold on”. A measurement proved that (as the pathologist had stated) Joseph would have fallen 40 to 50 feet to sustain the injuries he did. Directly below Michael’s window was the basement where he had landed, and from sill to bricks, the distance was exactly 41 feet. “I drew the prisoner’s attention towards the basement and the bloodied foot marks, but he gave no reply. In fact, he became quite sullen”. Which begs another question, what was the argument about and why didn’t Michael try to save his friend? At 6am, Joseph’s wife, Emily Wootton was brought to the Sardinia Buildings, where she identified the jacket, waistcoat, trousers, socks, boots and even the hat Michael said was his, as that of her husband. Michael Holland was taken to Bow Street Police Station, where he stated “I don’t know anything about it at all; I was drunk at the time” and charged with assault and causing injury to Joseph Wootton, but having died of his injuries at 7:45am, Michael was subsequently charged with his murder (End). An inquest into the murder of Joseph Wootton took place on the 13th March 1899 at St Clement Danes Vestry Hall, and after a committal hearing at Bow Street, he was tried at The Old Bailey on 10th April. The prosecution argued that Michael had pushed Joseph out of the window and left him dangling, but being too exhausted to hold his grip, he fell. But the defence denied this, arguing that the evidence was purely circumstantial and – more importantly – that there was no motive for the murder. Michael pleaded ‘not guilty’ but refused to provide any witnesses or evidence to prove this, which put Mr Justice Grantham in a quandary: he stated “the evidence is entirely circumstantial, but the prisoner has not assisted the jury by giving any reason for the disturbance. Instead, he has told lie after lie from the moment the police arrived, right across the investigation and until he was arrested”. But even when he was asked if he had anything further to say, Michael simply barked “no!” in a loud gruff voice. The jury retired for just thirty minutes, and having returned with a unanimous verdict of guilty, Michael Joseph Holland was sentenced to death. One hour before his execution, his sentence was reduced to life, which he served in Parkhurst Prison. But even up to that very moment, as death dangled, he remained totally silent as to what had happened between the two men, that night, in Room 84. But why? Why lie about a fight? Why hide his clothes? Why deny that his friend was there? And why, after fifteen years side-by-side, did he choose to watch Joseph die, rather than save his life? It’s a deadly secret that both men took to their graves, so the mystery of the falling men will never be solved. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. If you enjoyed that, stay tuned for tea slurping and utter waffle after the break. It’s not essential, so if you don’t like pointless rambling, switch off now. But before that, here’s a true-crime podcast which may very well be the icing on an iced bun. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters, who are; Aaron French and Rae Kennedy, I thank you both, I hope you’re enjoying your new and exclusive Murder Mile goodies. And a thank you to Aimee Graham, Anne Marie Cummings, Kim Calve and Leah Hawkins who sent a very kind donations via the Murder Mile eShop, which will be spent (not on Eva’s rather lethal cocktail collection) but on cake for me, so I thank you. Plus a thank you to everyone who shared this podcast with their friends. 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, 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.
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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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