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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND FORTY-SIX:
Today’s episode is about Harry Tuffney. Through his eyes, he saw himself as a loyal and loving man who always fought to live a good life; with a job, a home and a wife. But when his perfect little dream went awry, Harry would do the unthinkable.
THE LOCATION
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The location of 75 Star Street is marked with a blue cross, just by the word Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
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SOURCES: This case was researched using the original declassified police investigation file, as well as several other sources, not all of which are listed below:
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 Harry Tuffney. Through his eyes, he saw himself as a loyal and loving man who always fought to live a good life; with a job, a home and a wife. But when his perfect little dream went awry, Harry would do the unthinkable. Murder Mile is researched using authentic sources. 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 146: Harry Tuffney: The Abandoned Man. Today I’m standing on Star Street in Paddington, W2. Two streets from four very different killers; the solo-strangling of the Sad-Faced Killer in Sussex Gardens, the necrophile Reg Christie preying on Kathleen Maloney in Praed Street, the sadistic Blackout Ripper casually smoking after his failed attack on Kathryn Mulcahy in Southwick Street and then there was Frozen Jim - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just shy of Paddington Station, Star Street is one of a series of identical residential streets packed full of late 19th century three-storey terraces, which was formerly a slum. But with white stucco on ground floor, brown brick above and wrapped with black wrought-iron railings, they’ve brushed-up right nice. The problem is – with each street identical, and every house indistinguishable – it’s hard to tell them apart except for a tiny detail; like a lamp, a flower box, a garishly-coloured door, a mat with an oh-so witty slogan like ‘welcome’ (only misspelt so it reads ‘weclome’), ‘my other house is a mansion’ (which it isn’t), ‘you don’t have to be mad to live here, but it helps’ (suggesting that said owner is a ‘personality on legs’ when in fact he’s just a turd in a suit) and – the ever-funny - ‘beware of the wife’ (not the dog, the wife, implying she’s viscous, has rabies and spends half the day licking her genitals... I’m guessing). And if the postman or any passing guest is really lucky, the door might even have a house number. Today, it’s a home, but back in the 1930’s, 75 Star Street was Elizabeth Warren’s lodging house. A nice place where young couples could stay while struggling to afford their own home. In the front second-floor rooms lived Harry, a mechanic, and Kitty, a waitress; a pleasant couple in their late thirties who had recently got engaged and we’re looking forward to spend their whole lives together. This was where their love affair had begun... but sadly, it was also where it would end. As it was here, on the night of Friday 29th June 1934, that gripped with a life-long fear of abandonment, Harry Tuffney would ensure that he and his beloved Kitty would never be apart. (Interstitial) Into the wee small hours of the night, dressed in just pyjamas and a nightdress, Harry & Kitty were sat on Harry’s bed. Being in an age when unmarried couples didn’t dare share a bed (let alone have sex) for offending civilised society or the Good Lord above – being engaged, but unmarried, as they couldn’t afford the fee – the couple had single rooms with single beds connected by an adjoining door. Having sat sipping whiskey and ale from two tumblers, the love-sick twosome – who had only been an item for barely a year, so their feelings were still as box-fresh as the day they had met – had talked of their past and their future; of one together and one apart. And as the night drew ever blacker, so did their talk, as the thought of never being able to lie side-by-side turned their talk more morose. Through Harry’s eyes, there were no cries nor noises that night, only tears. No-one in that fully occupied lodging house heard a single sound as the unthinkable happened, as it was all very peaceful. With Kitty tucked-up in her own little bed, snuggled under the softness of her own sheets, Harry kissed his beloved’s cheek - “goodbye my sweet” – as her last ever breath left her slowly cooling body. Kitty was gone, Harry was broken, so with no reason to live, Harry used his last alive moments to write two letters; one to the police explaining the situation, and one to his family apologising for what he had done and was yet to do. “Dear mum and all. My darling passed away at 3am. It was instantaneous. She did not suffer at all. Never murmured. We had quite a long chat together, had a bottle of ale and a small bottle of whiskey. A parting drink from this world into the next. At 1am, after our talk, she said she did not care which way things went. Little did she know how near both our times were. Goodbye all. Harry”. With handwritten love-letters strewn about the floor and their last drink still whetted with her lipstick, Harry laid upon the carpet. Placing down two cushions for his head, he laid flat and opened-up the gas taps. Breathing the invisible killer deep, as in heaven, he prayed he would see his beloved again. Through Harry’s eyes, death was the only option... ...her death, his death, together... ...as Kitty was the only woman he would ever love. Born Edith Kathleen Longshaw in 1896, making her 38-years-old when she died, Kitty was never a fan of being called Edith, instead she preferred Kathleen, Kitty or Kat. To be honest, the nickname suited her, as with large almond-shaped eyes, a small nose and prominent cheeks, she looked like a cat. Raised in the peaceful village of Shipton-under-Wychwood in Oxfordshire, being far from any bustling city or choking industry, this small ancient parish was dominated by the stately manor houses of two wealthy families for the last five centuries. But Kitty’s family wasn’t one. Being working-class, as far back as anyone can recall, they had always lived here, working as farmers and domestic servants. Kitty’s life was as tough as anyone’s in that era, but with a loving mum, a hard-working dad and being one of several brothers and sisters, she came from a good family in this tight-knit country community. When the world was first plunged into all-out war, she remained in the village, working as a maid and keeping-tabs on her aging parents. When her brothers returned from war, some – like Ernest – stayed and used his military training to become a mechanic and chauffeur for one of the prominent families, but with some of others now living in the big city, Kitty wanted more for her life and moved to London. Widely regarded as reliable, pleasant and fast on her feet, Kitty worked several jobs in cafes and pubs, but really found her place as a ‘nippy’; one of the infamously speedy waitresses at Maison Lyonese, the corner-house tearoom owned by J Lyon’s & Co on the corner of Edgware Road and Marble Arch. Dressed head-to-foot in black with a white lace pinny, red buttons and a paper hat, Kitty worked fifty-four-hours-a-week for a wage of twenty-six shillings. It wasn’t a lot, but she got by, and being a “nice girl”, she befriended a regular customer called Mrs Warren who ran a lodging house at 75 Star Street. If ever she needed a clean affordable room – which sometimes she did – all she had to do was ask. And that was Kitty. She led a simple life (as many of us do); with no real troubles, issues or stresses. She worked hard, she lived as well as her wage would allow, and she hoped one day to have a home, a few kids, and - having been in-and-out of relationships - she was yet to find her ‘Mr Right’. Not a prince, nor a Romeo... ...just someone she could love. Harry was born Harry Tuffney in 1898, making him two-years younger than Kitty when he took his own life. Raised in Chalfont St Peter, a village in Buckinghamshire, he also came from working-class stock. Living in a cramped hovel in the delightfully-named Gravel Hill, the Tuffney family was large but typical of the era; with Harry being the first surviving child of mum Alice and John, a brick-layer; followed by Florence, Lucy, William, Isabella and George in quick succession. Without question, life would be hard, given his limited education and modest wage as a part-time baker’s boy. But his childhood would be short and tragic, as – with madness on both sides - his family were cursed by ‘maladies of the mind’. In 1912, aged just four, his baby brother George died in the Buckinghamshire Insane Asylum. His illness was undiagnosed, but it was reported that be suffered from ‘strong emotions’ and ‘bouts of delusion’. Three years earlier his aunt had died in the same asylum, his younger brother William was committed there in 1920 (where he would remain until his death), and – being prone to ‘hearing voices’ and ‘irrational acts’ – one frequent inmate was ‘the only woman he would ever love’ – his beloved mum. With a loss of affection, Harry had no stability in his early life, and although this was a sad tragedy which many families suffered – through his eyes – he always felt that he had been abandoned, a feeling which left him always searching for that one constant love who would remain by his side... forever. It is unknown whether Harry was ever a patient at the asylum, but as a painfully loyal young man who took loss very personally, around the time of his aunt’s death, aged eleven, Harry was found hanging from an apple tree. He survived, but no-one really knew if this was an accident, bullying or suicide. In 1916, aged 18, Harry did ‘his bit for King & Country’ and enlisted. Trained as a motorcycle mechanic, he rose to the rank of Staff Sergeant in the Light Car Patrol of the 11th Machine Gun Corps, based out of Tanta in Egypt. Harry had finally found his place in life; he had a career, a wage, a home and a new family amongst his fellow soldiers. He was described as loyal and brave, but a little ‘hot-headed’. Years later, he would claim that - in 1918 - he was hit by shrapnel in the head. There is no medical record to disprove this, and by 1934, he had no injury or scar. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. In 1920, it was said that while attempting to quell an uprising in Tanta and seeing one of his comrades “bashed and nearly killed” by a brutal mob - in a pique of uncontrolled anger – he “ran amok in a riot”, shooting and stabbing three Egyptians to death. Three weeks later, to protect a military policeman who was also a pal, he shot an Egyptian boy dead. No action was taken, no report was filed and (being war-time) there was no trial or inquiry. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. On 12th June 1920, finding “the only women I will ever love” he married 18-year-old Victoria Mardaros, they moved into a little flat at 28 Tel El Haddadin in Tanta, and being demobbed from the Army, he found a new career as the chauffeur, bodyguard and motor mechanic to an unnamed Egyptian Prince. To His Highness, Harry was (and would always remain) his eternally loyal servant, but always believing that Victoria – who he later described as “an obnoxious woman whose conduct preyed on my mind” - was unfaithful, six years later Harry divorced her... but not before he had tried to shoot her dead. Of this, there is no evidence nor criminal trial, but - in his eyes – it was her who had abandoned him. In 1928, with the Prince moving to London, so did Harry, and although his career was his one constant, his love-life was in chaos. That summer - “the only women I will ever truly love” – his mother, died in the Buckinghamshire Insane Asylum. Being broke and distraught at her passing, he tried to find love again, but by 1932, his second wife Margaret also died, just weeks after they were married. In Harry’s eyes, he had been abandoned, again and again, and again. Love had eluded him, happiness was a distant memory, and he would be forever cursed to live his life alone... ...until September 1933, when Harry met Kitty. Where they met was unrecorded, but they clearly liked each other having found their kindred spirit. With Harry, a mechanic and Kitty, a waitress, unable to afford swanky dinners and champagne, their romance was like anyone else’s – simple and sweet. They went to pubs, cinemas and took walks in the park, eating cheese and pickle sandwiches wrapped in wax paper and feeding the crusts to the ducks. It was a very normal relationship given the confines of the era; and still only courting, they held hands in public, kissed in the dark of the cinema and went to dances as an excuse to hold each other tight. At Christmas 1933, after four months together, Harry proposed and Kitty accepted. Fuelled by the fear that time was ticking away, maybe he was a little too rash to find a wife and she was too eager for babies? But there was no denying that they were in love. So, in March 1934, they moved in together. Taking up Mrs Warren’s offer, by the April, Harry & Kitty had rented two adjoining rooms at the lodging house at 75 Star Street. It was pleasant, clean, quiet and full of ten lodgers in full-time employment. Originally a larger room overlooking the street, being subdivided by a partition wall, Harry & Kitty’s rooms were small but affordable; with each consisting of a single bed, an armchair, a wash stand, a small fireplace for heating and for hot water, a small hob connected to a gas-tap at the skirting board. Being a temporary fix until they could afford a place of their own, it was filled with the typical things; a trunk of clothes, a wireless radio, some hats, some coats, some shoes, his bits for shaving, her bobs for make-up and a few pieces to make a nice night-time brew, as well as being sparsely decorated with a few family keepsakes, their many love-letters, and – on their bedside tables – a photo of each other. According to the lodgers, the future Mr & Mrs Tuffney weren’t just lovers, they were best friends; who stood side-by-side, were always loving and although a little quiet, no-one ever heard them quarrel. There was no denying, that Harry was entirely devoted to Kitty... ...only Kitty was not as devoted to Harry, and it plagued on his mind. Like many relationships, once the honeymoon period was over, feelings were never as strong. It didn’t mean she didn’t love him – she did – she just didn’t love him, as much. But as another loving relationship seemed to slip through his fingers, his life-long fear of abandonment rose, once again. Over the next few weeks, still living in adjoining rooms as they could afford little else, they remained together but had clearly drifted apart; they touched less and kissed as infrequently. Desperate never to lose “the only women I will ever truly love”, Harry insisted they marry soon, but always keen to keep the peace, Kitty simply smiled, trying to make the best of a difficult situation for both of them. But as the hurt slowly ate away at Harry’s heart, the paranoia began to gnaw away at his brain. In one of several letters written to his sister Lucy, Harry wrote of his pain and anguish, stating “there’s something wrong with my brain. One day, I feel that something is going to snap”. Helplessness had made him bitter and jealousy had made him moody, but something was not right in his head. In May 1934, after a decade of loyal service and just four weeks before he did the unthinkable, Harry lost his job as chauffeur and mechanic to the Egyptian Prince. The reason? He had become unreliable, although he would later claim he was sacked after an unnamed client made a false complaint against him. Of course, there was no evidence to disprove this, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. On Friday 15th June 1934, two weeks before, Kitty sat Harry down and told him the truth – “Harry, it’s over” – she said it softly, she held his hand and – to make him not feel like a failure, as she knew he would - she used every possible platitude to ease his pain; “you’ve done nothing wrong”, “it’s not you, it’s me”, “it wasn’t meant to be”. All of which, he seemed to take rather well. Two days later, having admitted to his sister that he had been snooping in Kitty’s handbag, Harry found a letter from a man called Briggs addressed to Kitty, in which the two planned to run-away together, and in the weeks prior, he had seen her out-and-about with several men. He said nothing to her about it, he put the letter back and it was never seen again. Although, there is no evidence to disprove this... ...but in his eyes, it was all true. Friday 29th June 1934 began as a very ordinary day. Still living in adjoined rooms and staying on friendly terms, Harry joined Kitty for a breakfast of tea, toast and boiled eggs. With her uniform crisp and neat, Kitty went to work, doing the regular 11am to 11pm shift at Maison Lyonese, a few streets away. The day was bright and sunny, but for Harry, the morning was already beset by a persistent gloom. In her fireplace, he had spotted the charred remnants of yet another letter to Kitty from Briggs. “I felt a blackness coming over me. I became infuriated. I went for a walk to feel better”. Skulking four streets south, six-minutes later he arrived at an iron-monger’s on Kendall Street, and purchased an axe. Harry: “it just came into my head... go out, buy a chopper”. With its wooden handle one foot-long and the six-inch-wide steel blade half-a-kilo in weight – as a very common tool for any household with a fireplace – it was light enough to carry in his hand, but heavy enough to split a large log in half. Returning home “I saw the letter again. I had an itching feeling all over my body, as I have felt before and I could see rings coming at me. I seemed to go very peculiar”, and he hid the axe under his bed. Mid-afternoon, Kitty came home. He would claim: “we kissed as usual. I felt better and I forgot all about the axe”, although several sources would state that she didn’t arrive back till almost midnight. That night, dressed in just pyjamas and a nightdress, they sat on Harry’s bed talking of their past and their future; of one together and one apart, with Harry favouring one and Kitty the other, as their calm and amicable conversation stretched into the wee small hours, waking no-one in the whole house. With work the next morning, although lipstick would prove that the two had sipped whiskey from two tumblers, no alcohol was detected in Kitty’s system. She wasn’t much of a drinker, in fact; she wasn’t ever morose or maudlin, she didn’t have dark thoughts or depression, and she never talked of suicide. Harry: “After drinking an eighth of a bottle of whiskey, I went to my room, undressed, I went to her room to say goodnight, and she said I was not looking well. She said she was fed up, and I suggested we should gas ourselves. We sat on the bed, and after drinking more whiskey, she started to write a letter”. Her last ever letter. Although, if this was true, her suicide note was never found. Through his eyes – unable to face a future where this love-sick twosome could never lie side-by-side – together they had decided on a death pact. But through hers, she was just tired and headed to bed. Harry: “I remember seeing it under the bed, I picked up the chopper and after that I went blank”. With Kitty tucked-up in her own little bed, snuggled under the softness of her own sheets, Harry kissed his beloved’s cheek - “goodbye my sweet” – and with one swift strike, he buried the axe’s blade deep into the back of her head; splintering her skull, splitting it wide and exposing her brains, as a thick pool of red goo formed about her lifeless corpse, as her last ever breath left her slowly cooling body. Locking the door, with Kitty gone, Harry used his last moments alive to write one letter to the police and one to his family (some living, some dead) apologising for what he had done and was yet to do. “Dear mum and all. My darling passed away at 3am. It was instantaneous. She did not suffer at all. Never murmured. We had quite a long chat together, had a bottle of ale and a small bottle of whiskey. A parting drink from this world into the next. At 1am, after our talk, she said she did not care which way things went. Little did she know how near both our times were. Goodbye all. Harry”. With Kitty’s handwritten love-letters to Briggs strewn about and their last drink still whetted with her lipstick, Harry laid upon the carpet. Placing down cushions for his head, he laid flat and opened-up the gas taps. Breathing the invisible killer deep, as in heaven, he prayed he would see his beloved again. Through Harry’s eyes, death was the only option... ...her death, his death, together. (End) Only Harry didn’t die. Why? We don’t know. Maybe a window was open, maybe the gas was weak, or maybe, it was all a lie? A few hours later, still wearing his blood-stained pyjamas, Harry handed himself in at Marylebone Lane Police Station, confessing “I have killed my girl. Here is the key to the door”. The Police arrived at 75 Star Street at 9:14am, to find a body, an axe, two tumblers, two letters written by Harry, no letters written by Kitty or Briggs, no witnesses, no assault, no signs of a struggle, and – following a medical - the police surgeon confirmed that Harry was suffering from coal-gas poisoning. Harry was charged at 11:30am with her murder, to which he confessed “I murdered the girl and that is the end of it. I done it. I suffer for it. I have had my revenge”. And unlike many other aspects in his life, we know this definitely happened, as there was a report, an inquest and a trial. While on remand at Brixton prison, two medical specialists came to different conclusions: Dr Organ for the defence stated that “Harry was temporarily insane at the time of the murder” and had a “family history of insanity”, where as Dr Grierson for the prosecution refuted this, stating that Harry was sane. Tried at the Old Bailey, Harry pleaded guilty to manslaughter by reason of insanity, but having already made a full confession to the Police, the jury found him guilty and he was sentenced to death. Harry Tuffney was executed at Pentonville Prison on 9th October 1934. But was any of this Harry’s fault? As with his mother, his aunt and two younger-brothers dead; having been hung as a child, injured as a soldier, and having shot and stabbed four Egyptians to protect his friends, with a divorced first wife, a dead second wife, and now a dead future third wife, all of whom had cheated on him? Would Harry have committed this heinous act if they hadn’t abandoned him? All of that is entirely true... but only if you see it through Harry’s eyes. OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. As always, if you enjoy a bit of non-obligatory chin-waggery, featuring a cup of tea, a possible cake (diet permitting), a little quiz and a few extra details about this case, join us after the break. A big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Nicola Marshall, Darren Gallagher, Carole Anne Willsher, Matthew Miskell and Sarah Bevan. I thank you for supporting the show, my belly, my cholesterol count and shares in Mr Kipling’s bakery. I thank you. 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, totalling 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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