Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25.
Chelsea & Westminster Hospital, site of the former Westminster Institute
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND FORTY-FOUR:
On Thursday 25th of October 1934, at the Westminster Institute on Fulham Road, Jim Harvey smashed in the skull of his friend George Hamblin, nine times with a hammer. But what drove a lonely man to murder his only friend? of hot tempers flared by alcohol?
The location is marked with a orange coloured symbol of a bin just above the River Thames near the word 'Cheslea'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Fulham Road in Chelsea, SW10; a few streets south of the beating of Gunther Podola, a short walk west of the jealousy of Jane Andrews, barely a quick trip from the bubbling drum of John George Haigh, and a little trot east of the lies of Ronald True - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 369 Fulham Road, on the site of the St George’s workhouse stands Chelsea & Westminster hospital, a small but vital facility with a world-renowned burns unit, a children’s hospital, and if you’re a man who (on a Friday night) slipped on a cucumber while making a salad in the nude, they’ll sort that too. In 1876, before the NHS was founded, as a middle ground between the workhouse and the infirmary, the Westminster Institute was built to provide beds, meals and free health care for 1300 sick and impoverished men who had no homes, no work and no families, in return for an honest day’s work. Like a prison, the inmates did what they could to relieve the boredom by sneaking in contraband, by pinching treats from the mess hall, by blagging an extra cup of tea when the warders weren’t watching, and – through George Hamblin, the Institute’s secret bookie – you could bet on a horse for a penny. As just a little bit of fun for regulars who liked a flutter, at best he made a small profit off the £4 a day he placed on the day’s races, and although he barely made enough for a fun night out with a lady, that little stash of coins would prove so tempting for a fellow inmate, that they’d kill him for it. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 244: No Fixed Abode. George Hamblin was typical of the institute’s long-term inmates… …he wasn’t there because of a crime he had committed, but because life had been unkind to him. Allen George Hamblin was born in 1886 in Lambeth, South London. Having never married or had kids, and with him and his only next-of kin, his brother, having not spoken in a decade, little is known about his life, except that he was a driver, until he was hospitalised owing to heart issues and chronic asthma. Beginning as a day inmate in 1921, growing ever sicker and paler as bronchitis ravaged his battered lungs, by 1934, George had become one of Westminster Institute’s longest serving residents. As a small thin man who a stiff breeze could easily blow over, on the outside he was a nobody, but on the inside, 49-year-old George had the privileged position of being valet to the labour superintendent. With light duties, he cleaned his boss’s room, served his meals and ironed his uniform in return for a less strenuous day – befitting a man of his frailty – as he walked the dark echoey halls with stoop. Being a familiar face and a trusted lag who could get an inmate what he wanted for a price, wherever George went – from the mess hall in B Block, his bunk in Bed 3 of B63, his boss’s room in B78, or the storeroom in B77 which everyone nicknamed the ‘dug out’ – his slow and steady shuffle was heard, accompanied by his raspy wheezing cough, which he soothed with another rollie from his daily ration. This was his life, simple and inoffensive, as this ailing and tragically forgotten man would make his days a little better by placing small bets for his pals, trading goods for simple pleasures, and by October 1934, the highlight of his week was finding a French 25 Centime coin which he kept in his wallet. His friend was a recent inmate called George Harvey, who everyone called Jim. Born in Wandsworth In 1908, 27-year-old George Frederick Harvey was an ex-chef of no fixed abode. At least, that is what he would tell the police, only little of it was true. Born in Balham, his real name was Charles Malcolm Lake Schonberg, one of six siblings to Thomas (of German heritage) and Florence (of French) who were raised – in post-World War One Britain - on a respectable middle-class street. As a stockily built man who would grow to a strapping six-foot two, Jim’s health was cursed from the day he was born being burdened by sickness, disability and chronic alcoholism in the family. As a baby, he was plagued with infantile convulsions and having left home when he was just 8, he rarely returned. Sparsely educated, aged 17 he joined the Merchant Navy as a cook, but having contracted malaria, in 1926, aged 19, this large imposing brute was discharged from service on account of his breathlessness. Being unmarried, homeless and jobless, after two and a half years in prison for stealing a few coins, a watch and a set of earrings (as a present for a lady), in 1932, aged 25, the large lumbering form of Jim entered the infirmary to be treated for asthma which left him unable to do the simplest of tasks, and also plagued by a bad heart, this wheezing hulk couldn’t run a few steps without sweating or fainting. Like George, the Westminster Institution had become his home… …but as much as he would hate it, there were ways to make it more bearable. Life inside was all about little victories. Unlike a workhouse, as the beds were for men too sick to be booted out but not sick enough to stay at the infirmary, the Institute wasn’t a bad place. You couldn’t leave without permission, but if you did, they wouldn’t alert the police to watch the ports, as (knowing that the men had nothing else) most returned, only to be punished by just having their privileges cut. Inside, you wore the uniform on an inmate (a blue striped shirt and trousers), but if you were granted a day pass to go outside to earn a day’s money or to visit your family, you got your own clothes back. Which is why Harry Pocock the superintendent knew about these little scams, but didn’t nothing about them. If the inmates were selling drugs, hard liquor or blades, he’d clamp down on those harshly, but he’d turn a blind eye to these innocent little trades for a few pennies which made the men feel normal. Jim’s racket was selling cups of tea, as with every inmate rationed to just three cups of rather weak dribble which had once been waved near a leaf, for 1p, he could slip you a hot mug of a nice strong brew. Not alcohol, not mentholated spirit, just tea, which as we know is the fuel which powers Britain. George’s racket was horseracing, and his routine was always the same. Before breakfast, George went around Block B with the newspaper informing the inmates of the races, the odds were calculated using a ‘ready reckoner’ book which he kept in his jacket, each inmate was handed a betting slip, at 4:30pm George’s messenger William Richardson popped out to purchase an evening paper with the race’s results, and with the bell for B Block ringing at 5pm sharp, every winner was told of their score over the meal in the mess hall, with all winnings collected from the ‘dug out’. Everyone knew about the ‘dug out’. Room B77 was little more than a storeroom, where (as Harry Pocock’s valet) George would wash his plates, iron his uniform, and - given a key - it was the perfect place to stash the cash, which he received from the inmates in pennies, tuppences, occasionally a sixpence, and most recently a postal order. It wasn’t much of a room, barely 13 by 8 feet, with a chair, three low tables, an electric light, a bed (for if George got sleepy) and the sideboard decorated with all manner of mucky pictures of sexy ladies and with this being the 1930s – if you were really lucky – you may get to perv over… an ankle. Phwoar! As pals, one of the few inmates who George let into this room was Jim… …but just as his real name was Charles, his real motive wasn’t to chat. It began, it is assumed, a few days before when Jim sent a letter to a girl he was fond of, Clara Barnes. He wrote “Dear Miss Barnes. I shall like to see you Saturday. If you are round the Regal ‘Marble Arch’ at about 8 o’clock, we could get in a show or something. You will know me, tall fellow, saw you on Monday while back. Hope all OK. See you soon. Frederick”, even though everyone knew him as Jim. George’s lady friend, a widow called Mrs Eva Clark, later informed the police “he said a big fellow was blackmailing him… some time afterwards he received a ragged piece of paper on which was written ‘yes, 13, yes’”. She didn’t know what it meant, and George never told her who the ‘big fellow’ was… …but I think it’s safe to guess. Thursday 25th of October 1934 was as routine as any other day. At 5am to 7am, Jim served 40 cups of strong tea making himself about £90 today, as before breakfast, George chatted to the betters about the races. But at 9am, as a key piece of premeditation, Jim asked the Assistant Master for permission to leave at 5pm. Being an unusual request as none of the inmates were allowed night jobs, this was denied, meaning he couldn’t obtain a leave slip or his own clothes. During the day, William the messenger collected the inmate’s coins, totalling £4 and 3s on 137 bets as noted in the ready reckoner, as well as a postal order from Walter Blanchette for a horse called Argyl. At 4:30pm, knocking on the locked door of the ‘dug out’, William handed the evening paper to George, who was slumped over a table calculating the winnings, as Jim towered beside the inside of the door. As usual, William stayed for a minute, the door was locked behind him, and he saw nothing suspicious. At 5pm, the dinner bell rang, and the inmates dashed to the mess hall leaving B Block empty. Nobody heard anything, not a shout, a cry nor a scream… …but having done the unthinkable, Jim needed to flee. His escape wasn’t really a masterplan, but with the Institution’s security so lax, at 5:15pm, the hulking bulk easily made his way out. Having already swiped a day slip from an unattended desk, he changed into this own clothes with his bloodied shirt hidden under his grey suit, he handed in his uniform, and although he was very agitated and sweating profusely, he tottered out, before anyone quizzed him. Also at 5:15pm, William the messenger knocked on the door of the ’dug out’, but as George was prone to taking a nap after dinner, getting no reply, he wasn’t that worried. And even though a night count discovered that both George Hamblin and Jim Harvey were missing from their beds, the police weren’t alerted, and no search party was sent for, as (like on most nights) as many as six men had gone AWOL… …only one hadn’t left and the other would never return. At a little after 5:30pm, a taxi pulled up outside of 2 Colville Houses in Bayswater, the home of Miss Clara Barnes, a local prostitute, who Jim was sweet on. Perspiring like the Niagara Falls of sweat, she was shocked to see him, not because his face was as red as a baboon’s backside, but because he wasn’t due for two more days. But with his bad heart and his chronic asthma explaining his look, he confessed “I was running a betting book, and I lost a lot of money”, which more than explained his frayed nerves. Clara was why he stole the money, to spend a night with the girl he loved, having met her just once. Only the romantic date he had dreamed of would be ruined by the horror of what he had done. That night, before anyone in the Institution was even aware that he was missing, at 7pm, Clara & Jim hopped a taxi to the Blue Hall Cinema on Edgware Road. Described as nervous, exiting the cab, he was a twitchy as an addict going through withdrawal, as every voice, bark or siren he heard spooked him. Paying two shillings for seats in the empty Upper Circle, although they both wanted to see Manhattan Melodrama (the last movie that wanted criminal John Dillinger saw before being gunned down by the police), within minutes of being seated, Jim nervously stammered “sorry, I’ve gotta go to the toilet”. According to Clara, he was away for ten minutes, too long for a plop and a piddle, which he blamed needing to find a pub for a pint (which didn’t ring true to her as the cinema bar was stocked). But the real reason was he was away for so long was he was in the grip of a panic and he had evidence to bin. Jim knew that it wouldn’t take a detective to find George’s body, to blame Jim for the death, to realise the money was missing, and to see that the murder weapon was still on the table, where he’d left it. Having stashed the bloodied shirt, he knocked up a ceiling panel in the cinema’s bathroom and hid the ready reckoners and tobacco pouch, and although he wanted to go into hiding, the purpose of the crime was to go on a date with Clara. So having ditched the film, they went to a pub where he sunk a few double whiskeys with a Guinness chaser, and although Clara wanted to have fun, Jim couldn’t. That night, they didn’t have sex, as with his nerves shot, he couldn’t manage it. Sitting upright in bed, smoking and muttering, although Jim put on two shirts as he was shivering, he couldn’t stop shaking. Holding George’s wallet, it contained all that was left from the heist, four shillings and six pence which he gave to Clara, leaving him with a postal order, a 25 Centime coin and the key to the ‘dug out’. And that was it. It should have been a wild night of thrills… …but with a man lying dead, it was all for nothing. At 5am, the usual 40 men who paid a penny for a strong cup of tea were awoken to nothing from Jim. At 7am, no-one heard that familiar shuffle as George went from bed to bed with the paper taking bets. At 7:15am, with both men missing, Frederick Thomas the Labour Master grabbed the spare key to the ‘dug out’, where it was known that George often kipped, and unlocked the door. The light was still on, although it was bright enough to see, “when I entered, I slipped”, as all around his feet was blood. The room was small, but so violent were the blows that blood spattered four feet off the floor, up the walls, parts of the ceiling, and even speckling the mucky nudes in a red dripping goo. With the door locked, the police knew the killer had let themselves out, and yet, only a few men were ever let in. Arriving on site and seeing the position of the body and the concentration of the spatter, Home Office Pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury deduced that the attack had occurred as George was slumped over a low table, tallying the betting slips which were scattered across the floor, using his ready reckoner which was missing, as was the pot of winnings which usually totalled £4 to £5 in assorted coins. Many items had vanished, like his tobacco pouch, his wallet and the door key, and with his killer having rifled his pockets with bloodstained hands as the sticky insides were sticking out, there was no denying that this was a robbery. But was it also a personal attack, as the level of violence would suggest? George was not a well man, a small frail weakling who wheezed when he breathed and as Sir Bernard would state “the first blow as enough to render him senseless”, but this attack was brutal and frenzied. On the table, the weapon sat, sopping wet and unnervingly sticky. It was hard to tell what it was having been wrapped in a hessian sack and tied with tape (so when his victim’s juices rode up the handle with every blow, the killer’s hand didn’t slip), but having snapped in two owing to the force used, at two feet long and two kilos heavy, George had been killed with a lump hammer, used for breaking rocks. The autopsy confirmed “he was struck while over the table and held there while the other blows were delivered”. He was hit nine times with a hammer across the back of his head. The first rendered him semi-conscious, the next three smashed his skull wide open, the rest of the blows were overkill, and according to Sir Bernard “on the wall was a soft pinkish mess which proved to be a piece of brain”. Only the violence inflicted upon George wasn’t the most tragic part of his death, as Sir Bernard stated “his body temperature showed he hadn’t died until at least 10pm and with evidence of movement”, although his skull had been smashed in, unable to stand, speak or even scream, George lay on the cold hard floor behind a locked door, slowly dying, paralysed, bleeding and terrified, for at least five hours. Based on when William the messenger had delivered the evening newspaper to George and when he had found the door to B77 locked, the detectives determined that the murder occurred during a 25-minute window of 4:50pm to 5:15pm. Having locked the Institute down with no-one allowed to leave, of the six inmates who had gone AWOL, one was dead, four had returned but only one was missing. George’s pal, Jim Harvey who was last seen, sweating and agitated as he fled the Institute at 5:15pm. That day, on Friday 26th of October, knowing that he read the lunchtime paper, the Standard published the following story on the front page. It read: “Murder in a London Hospital… George Hamblin was last seen about five o’clock last night… when discovered… Police questioned the patients and staff, and Scotland Yard were informed that one of the inmates was not on the premises… a widespread search was begun for his man”, and what followed was a description of the hulking bulk of Jim Harvey. That same day, with a cleaner finding his bloodstained shirt behind the toilet of the Blue Hall Cinema in Edgware Road, Police also discovered George’s ready reckoner books and his tobacco pouch. And with the evidence mounting up, even more than usual, Jim was beginning to tremble and to sweat. Lying in bed, smoking heavily and with the newspaper shaking in his nervous hands, Jim said to Clara “I want to tell you the truth. I am not a bookie. I am the man they want for the workhouse murder”, at which, even though he was the one with the chronic heart problems, it was Clara who fainted. Having convinced him that it was the right thing to do, 7 hours after George’s body was discovered, Jim walked into Paddington Green Police Station and gave himself up. But upon his arrest, when asked “do you have anything thing to say?”, he replied “do what you like, I know nothing about it”. (End) The evidence against him was compelling. In his pockets, police found George’s wallet, a postal order for to that day’s horse races and the door key to the ‘dug out’. His fingerprints were found on the hammer, and George’s blood group (being A when his was O) was found on his shirt (which he’d hidden) and his trousers (which he’d handed in), which were all stitched with the laundry mark B132, a number unique amongst the 1300 inmates to him, and no-one else. Making no confession, he refused to give an account for his whereabouts when George was killed, he didn’t deny that he wasn’t in the ‘dug out’, but with the money spent, the blackmail note missing and it unexplained as to what ‘yes, 13, yes’ actually meant, bar a robbery, the murder was motiveless. Even at his committal, when charged that he did “feloniously and wilfully with malice aforethought kill and murder George Hamblin with a hammer”, Jim simply replied “it is all a mystery to me, sir”. Declared fit to stand trial, on Monday 21st January 1935, in a five-day trial at the Old Bailey, asked “did you inflict these nine blows with a hammer which killed George Hamblin?”, he replied “I did not”, and although he professed his innocence, after just one hour, the jury found him guilty of wilful murder. On the 11th of March 1935, at Pentonville Prison, George Frederick Harvey known as Jim was executed by hanging. No family or friends had come to visit him, and with the only witnesses being the prison staff, his solicitor and the hangman Robert Baxter, he died as he lived, all alone. Jim Harvey took the real motive for the murder to his grave, and yet, one detail remained a mystery. Why did he hide the fact that his real name was Charles Malcolm Lake Schonberg? As even at his trial, he was referred to as George. Well, in some of the last words he ever spoke, he stated that although he hadn’t seen her in years, “my mother is gravely ill and I don’t want to upset her”. He already had one death on his conscience, and with that shame enough to kill her, he just couldn’t bare another. 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.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. 
Archives
September 2024
Subscribe to the Murder Mile true-crime podcast
Categories
All
Note: This blog contains only licence-free images or photos shot by myself in compliance with UK & EU copyright laws. If any image breaches these laws, blame Google Images.
|