Nominated BEST BRITISH TRUE-CRIME PODCAST, 4th Best True-Crime Podcast by This Week, iTunes Top 25 Podcast, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50, The Telegraph's Top 5, Crime & Investigation Channel's Top 20 True-Crime Podcasts, also seen on BBC Radio, Sky News, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week.
71 Elsham Road, W14 is on the left (copyright @Googlemaps2024, July 2022)
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.
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 Elsham Road in Shepherd’s Bush, W14; three streets north of the Labour Party lothario, four streets east of the Devil’s Child’s home, a tube stop south of The Beast’s last killing, and three streets west of the boy with the bongos who went bang - coming soon to Murder Mile. Set on a quiet tree-lined street beside Holland Park, Elsham Road features a wealth of early Victorian five-storey terraces in sandstone brick. It’s a pretentiously middle-class street where no-one goes on “holidays”, they “winter”; everybody has a cleaner as they’re too busy to put their own bins out, and instead of going to their doctor, they “rebalance their Shakras” by shoving a crystal up their jacksies. It’s a street with a falseness to it, as its people try desperately hard to be who they wish they were. On the 14th of October 1941, the ground floor and basement flats at 71 Elsham Road were owned by Theodora Greenhill, a widowed mother of considerable means who was looking to sell up and move on. That day, a convicted burglar and a homeless thief arrived on this street looking for a flat to rob, and even though he was a man who certainly didn’t belong there, she let him in, and he took her life. But why did he kill her? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 261: Dr Trevor’s Greed. To say that Theodora Greenhill was an impressive woman would be an understatement. Born on the 2nd of December 1875 in Anglesey, North Wales, Theodora Jessie Weblyn was raised in an era when women were barely educated, were denied a career, had less legal rights than cattle, and life dictated that their sole purpose was to cook, clean, procreate and tend to their husband’s needs. Regardless of how far from a supposedly civilised city she was raised - where the metropolitan elite were supposedly 30 years ahead of the rest of the country - she couldn’t vote, smoke in public, enter a pub alone, or wear trousers; like many women she couldn’t have a bank account, she was denied a career, and even the home she lived in was her husband’s property – as a woman was only a belonging. Upon her death, the press described her solely as “a widow of an Army Officer”… …but seen as a trailblazer, Theodora was so much more. As the second youngest of four daughters to Jessie & Walter Weblyn, maybe it was a desperate need to stand out from her siblings which gave her such an independent spirit, but Theodora was different. Not content to marry simply because it was expected of her, guided by her father’s love of sport (being the co-owner of the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News), she became passionately involved with horse racing, carriage pursuit, and later – as technology changed everyone’s lives – motor sport. In the late 1890s, Theodora moved from Anglesey to London. Situated at The Ranelagh Club in Barnes, South London, the Ladies' Automobile Club ran a series of driving competitions in which small petrol-driven horseless carriages competed in races and time-trials, in an era when automobiles were seen as a fad, safety wasn’t considered. and the first Model T Ford was almost a decade from being built. At the Ranelagh Automobile Gymkhana, held in July 1900, the first ladies’ race was held. Consisting of a single lap of barely a mile long around the 130-acre site at Barn Elms, 25-year-old Theodora Weblyn won the race in a 6hp Daimler ‘Parisian’, having reached thrilling speeds of 23.7 miles per hour. That may seem slow to us, but back then, people still believed that driving faster than 30mph was fatal. Theodora was a pioneer in racing, and in her life, she was equally as independent and free-spirited. On the 9th of January 1902, she married Rupert Tattersall, and by Spring 1904, their daughter Katherine was born. But with the marriage lasting only seven years owing to his adultery, in 1907, a court granted her a divorce, an allowance and the costs paid of her home at 10 Westbourne Mansions, Kensington. Now with two children, Virginia aged 3 and Katherine aged 6, although a census describes her as the ‘head of the house’ and ‘a woman of private means’, having fallen in love with Major Hubert Greenhill of the Dorset Regiment, in the spring of 1913, they married and later had another daughter, Sylvia. As a strong confident woman with no sense of fear, she gifted her daughters with her drive and passion so each went on to live rich and fulfilling lives. In March 1926, following the death of her husband, she made the decision not to remarry, and having inherited his Army pension, a widow’s allowance and with their house now legally under her name, this is where she would live for the rest of her life. By 1939, 71 Elsham Road was the perfect place for a 63-year-old widow and her youngest unmarried daughter Sylvia. Set on a quiet middle-class street far from the bustling crowds, the two shared this maisonette with a kitchen, bathroom and living room in the basement, and the bedrooms above. And with the three upper floors occupied by three single women - Mrs Bishop, Miss Melly and Miss Pick – the communal front door was often left unlocked, as they never had any trouble with strangers. Theodora wasn’t a shrinking violet who needed a man in her life, she wasn’t lonely, she wasn’t in need of love, and she wasn’t a pushover. She was an impressive self-reliant woman of means who was about to make a big change in her life, by moving away from her home, her street and her city. The first evacuation of London occurred following the outbreak of the second world war in September 1939. Millions fled the city, but having lived though the Zepplin bombs of the first world war, several pandemics, an adulterous husband, being widowed and giving birth three times, even after 8 months and 5 days of unrelenting blitz bombing, Theodora saw it as her duty to stand firm to Hitler’s onslaught. But with her eldest daughters having left, and imploring their mother and youngest sibling to flee to the safety of the country, seeing it as no time for stubbornness as the Luftwaffe had continued their bombing spree of unprecedented slaughter, Theodora began packing up her belongings and - with a shortage of homes as large parts of the city were reduced to rubble - she sought out a lodger. Sladden & Stewart were the estate agents tasked with finding a well-mannered middle-class man or woman to rent out Theodora’s flat. The lodger, preferably a man with a rank or a title, but certainly someone with a noble profession was preferred. That day, the estate agents found her a doctor… …and yet, the man who would murder her was nothing short of a career criminal. Harold Dorian Trevor was a 61-year-old convict who had dedicated his life to theft and lies. As a vague man with an unspecified past, little is known about his life and few records exist to corroborate the litany of dishonesties which passed his lips. In truth, he never had a job, his education was slim, most of his life was spent in prison, and with no profession, what he achieved was nothing to brag about. Where he grew up was uncertain, as although he had connections to London, the North of England and even the Welsh coastal town of Llandudno, a fake middle-class accent disguised any hints of truth. His attire gave away few clues, as although his tall gaunt frame alluded to his working-class roots, he dressed like a gentleman of money, wearing a fawn overcoat with a fine silk scarf, walking with a neat cane, a monocle upon his right eye and perched upon his thinning grey hair often sat a top hat. He came across as respectable, but the facts were far from the truth. Harold was small-time thief, pointless and petty, he wasn’t the kind of thug who would batter a bloke over his head for the sake of a bag of coins or burst into a bank with a sawn-off shotgun. He wasn’t a yob, he was a cowardly pilferer who snuck into houses when the owners were out, and used his charm to distract an old lady so he could swipe her purse from the side and then be gone before they noticed. His first offence was on 13th of May 1896, when 15-year-old Harold Atkins (as he called himself) was bound over for stealing a purse. After that, often within weeks or days of being paroled, he’d steal bags, hats, gloves and purses (anything which wasn’t nailed down) and always under different aliases. On the 21st of October 1899, he served his first conviction of 18 months at Pentonville Prison, followed by 18 and a ½ years in prison across the next twenty years. Released from a 5-year stint in 1918, by the December, he had married 31-year-old Cicely Taylor. But did marriage make him a better man? No. Unwilling to work and having got a taste for the finer things in life, by this point, he had lived the life of an imposter for so long, it was suggested that he had forgotten who the real Harold Dorian was. As a man who had come from nothing, he would become something through lies and deception. With his preferred targets being mature middle-class ladies, he would ingratiate them with his manners and charm, he would profess to be an architect or a surgeon, and – as a rank or title in that era forgave all kinds of crimes – he used many respectable aliases like Sir Charles Warren, Lord Herbert and Dr Trevor. In 1919, having gravitated to stealing more expensive items, he served 5 years for jewellery theft. In 1925, he served a further 5 years for cheque fraud. And in 1936, found guilty of 30 cases of larceny and deception at the Old Bailey, Harold Dorian Trevor was sent to HMP Parkhurst for another 5 years. From 1899 to 1936, in the 37 years he had been a criminal, he had spent 35 of these behind bars. He wasn’t great at what he did, but described as a “gentleman thief”, he didn’t appear in the newspapers as the items he stole were often insured, and he was far too cowardly to perpetrate an act of violence. Under the palatable middle-class alias of Dr Trevor, being once again broke, Harold would wheedle his way into the home of Theodora Greenhill under the ruse that he was looking for a flat to rent… …but as his first ever act of violence, why would he kill her? (Cliffhanger) On 3rd of October 1941, 61-year-old Harold Dorian was released after five years in Parkhurst Prison. With the world reduced to rubble, it wasn’t only the city which was broken and frail - so was Harold. As age had weakened his strength, prison food had slowed his pace and the bluff of crap chats with cons had almost eviscerated his charm, although he was still a man who coveted the finer things in life, his wife had disowned him, his friends were gone, and every citizen was very wary of strangers. As part of his parole, having hopped off the boat from the Isle of Wight, and made his way by train to London, he registered with his parole officer, and spent several nights at the City Temperance Hostel. Poverty was a dirty word to Harold Dorian, and with dinner comprising of a watery stew and being forced to sleep on scratchy sheets in a cramped room which slept twenty assorted drunks and hobos, three days later, a well-spoken man booked into Flemmings Hotels in Half Moon Street in Piccadilly. He ordered a fine meal, he slept on soft sheets, he had his clothes cleaned, and he left without paying. The next day, at the St Martin’s Hotel on Upper St Martin’s Lane, a ‘Mr Trevor’ did the same. It was an old con he had trotted out many times before, but his parole officer was keen to make him go clean. Living off a handout of 10 shillings, on Tuesday 7th of October, six days before the murder, he was told to report to the Labour Exchange to find himself a job. But what job could he do? He was a 61-year-old greedy ex-con who hadn’t done an honest day’s work in his adult life. So, unable to go straight… …he did what he knew. With the war and rationing in full force, even though millions had been evacuated from the city and lived in fear of their deaths, Harold would never shed a tear for these lone frightened ladies, as even as their neighbours’ homes were blasted apart around them, he only thought of what he could steal. On Thursday 9th of October at 11:30am, Mr H D Trevor called at the estate office of Harrods, and said to be “looking for a flat for myself and my daughter”, an appointment was made with the owner. Arriving at 8 Sloane Street in Knightsbridge, as the impressive residence of wealthy widow Mrs Bertha Haydock; he rang the doorbell, he politely greeted this lone woman with a reassuringly soft voice, as was good manners he handed her his visiting card which listed him as ‘Dr Trevor’, and as they chatted, this seemingly respectable man browsed the rooms as his eyes wandered over the items he’d steal. At around 12pm, he asked “may I bother you for a glass of water?”, and with her having headed to the kitchen to fulfil his request, telling her “I’m just going to see if my daughter had arrived”, he left. Five minutes later, as he hadn’t returned, she went in search of him. It was only then she realised that her handbag was missing; inside of which was her purse, a cheque book and a diamond ring. That was his technique; a little charm, a deposit, an honest distraction, an excuse, a snatch and a hasty retreat. By Monday 13th of October, he’d spent every penny he’d stolen from Bertha, so using the same ruse, at 2pm, ‘Dr Trevor’ arrived at Sladden & Stewart estate agents and was given four addresses within walking distance, 42 Holland Road, 6 Norland Square, 9 St James Gardens and 71A Elsham Road. With each home owned by a lone widow, their guest would be greeted, during a chat he’d ask for a glass of water, having agreed to move in, they’d write him a receipt for the few guineas as a deposit, and having made his excuse, they’d later discover a few items missing after a visit by ‘Dr Trevor’. He would steal what he felt these wealthy widows could easily replace… …and yet, none of them were ever threatened or hurt. Tuesday 14th of October 1941 was typical of most days, as a little light drizzle tempered the fires after a night of bombardment. In the ground and basement flat at 71 Elsham Road, 65-year-old Theodora Greenhill was packing up for her move, lugging heavy boxes with ease, all while immaculately dressed. With her daughter Sylvia and the ladies in the flats above out, Theodora was alone when the doorbell rang. Theodora “Dr Trevor?”, Harold “Indeed Madam, here is my card”, Theodora “please do come in”, as by appointment, at 11am sharp, she let in the top-hatted and monocled guest into her home. To her, he seemed polite, frail and harmless. His middle-class accent was slightly affected by a regional twang, but having both been partially raised in North Wales, so was hers. And although his attire made him stand out, his calm mannerisms and his uncomplicated ways made him easily forgettable. It didn’t bother her as she showed this stranger about her flat, and it didn’t seem odd as his eyes spied her possessions on display, as alone she walked him from room-to-room. He was as unthreatening as melting ice, and she was a forthright ex-racing driving who – if she had to - could easily put up a fight. Harold claimed “I agreed to rent it at 3 ½ guineas a week. She excused herself and went down to the basement to write a receipt”. Having left him alone for a few minutes in the drawing room, within swiping distance of his sticky fingers lay a pair of gold rimmed lorgnettes, a cheque book, a handbag, and some treasury notes. “I wanted to steal them, but didn’t”, he said, then his memory went blank. “For a reason I can’t fathom”, he’d claim, “I took an empty wine bottle from the hall” and snuck down to the basement. Facing the wall, Theodora was standing at her bureau, as with a fountain pen in her hand, she wrote him a receipt, which read “received from Dr H D Trevor, the sum of...” (glass smash). The glass bottle smashed into 27 pieces, which knocked her out cold, but with no skull fractures or brain damage, she was bleeding, but still alive and breathing. He had never hurt a woman before, until now. But why? Was this desperation, or greed? Harold would claim “I suddenly found myself seated in the downstairs kitchen”, and yet, in his state of supposed delirium, he ransacked her bureau, found her cash box, took the 3 ½ guineas he had given her as a deposit and then went searching for more. Over the next two hours, as Theodora lay motionless, as if this was his last heist, he took a large trunk she had begun packing, and loaded it with whatever goodies his greedy little mitts could grab. Such as two fur coats, several silk dresses and slips, a metal clock, a bottle of bay rum, two rings, two handbags, five brooches, a portmanteau case, seven handkerchiefs and a sponge, totalling £100 (£5900 today). He was methodical as he took anything of any value, but it was then that something would spook him. (Phone) At 12:33pm, Sylvia called to see how the appointment with Dr Trevor went, only her mother didn’t pick up. At 2pm, Katherine called, as returning from New York that day, she planned to drop by later, only likewise, the phone went unanswered. And with Sylvia calling at 2:10pm as Katherine was concerned, sometime during these hours, with a woollen stocking, Harold chocked the life out of her. He’d claim he couldn’t remember strangling her, just as he couldn’t recall putting a handkerchief over her face to stop her glaring eyes from staring, as they remained as fixed and open as her gaping mouth. In a swift second decision, the thief had become a murderer for the sake of a few items which wouldn’t last him the month. But arrogance can be a powerful fuel to the fires of greed, so as her body lay limp, he hailed a taxi, got two labourers to help him carry the trunk, and headed to King’s Cross station. Katherine arrived at 2:30pm, just minutes after this killer had fled… …and as she entered the flat, she screamed, finding her mother dead. Being as emotionally cold as the corpse he had left behind; Harold didn’t once think about his actions. By the station, he pawned off her wedding ring for £2 and 5s, and fled to Birmingham, where he stayed at the Midland Hotel; sleeping on silk sheets, gorging on five course meals, and ordering room service. Dressed in a new suit, a bowtie and a trilby hat, he sold off the rest at an antiques dealer in Mosely, as well as a portmanteau case etched with Theodora’s initials, and under several aliases, he stayed at the Royal Hotel in Sutton Coldfield, the Carmell Hotel in Colwyn Bay, and the Rothbury Hotel in the Welsh town of Llandudno, a place he seemed to have fond memories of from his distant childhood. Arriving at 3:10pm, the investigation was headed up by Chief Inspector William Salisbury. The murder of Theodora Greenhill would be as swift as any crime he had solved before. With a trunk of possessions missing, the motive was robbery. With no defensive wounds, the attack was swift, silent and unprovoked. And although the name he’d used was an alias, his identity wasn’t exactly a mystery. On the desk, although bafflingly he’d spent four hours ransacking the flat, he’d left behind the receipt she was writing, which read “received from Dr H D Trevor”. Upon the same desk was his visiting card in the name of Dr H D Trevor, which was one of several aliases he had used during his prior convictions. When questioned, the taxi driver, the estate agents and the labourers who helped him with the trunk, all described him as “early 60s, 6-foot tall, slim build, grey short hair with a scar over the left eye”, and on 15 shattered fragments of the wine bottle which he had used to stun Theodora, they had found fingerprints for a 61-year-old burglar, thief, conman and now murderer called Harold Dorian Trevor. With his details issued to the press and police, four days later, he was spotted in Llandudno. PC Thomas had only been a reserve policeman for two weeks. He was so new to the job he didn’t even have a uniform. But recognising the suspect from a news article he’d read that day, he apprehended him at a phone kiosk in Queen Street, and the so-called ‘Dr Trevor’ was charged with murder. (End) Tried at the Old Bailey, Harold Dorian pleaded ‘not guilty’ to murder. Across the two-day trial, being a born liar, he would claim that he was never there, he would vehemently deny strangling her, he would claim total memory loss, he would state he had been certified insane aged 13, he would ask for the case to be dismissed owing to malpractice by his lawyers, and he even accused the police of getting him drunk on the train to London and demanding that his confession be inadmissible as evidence. For his baffling defence, he gave a list of witnesses who could prove his alibi, none of whom could be found, and although he presented as mentally unstable, Dr Grierson, Senior Medical Officer of Brixton Prison gave evidence that although his behaviour was erratic, “he was sane and fit to stand trial”. On the 29th January 1942, having been sentenced to death, ever the egotist, he professed to the court “I sincerely hope that each one of you gentlemen of the jury will remember these words. These words are…. that I only hope that you, each one of you, as you will someday stand before a higher tribunal, you will receive a greater measure of mercy than has never been meted out to me in this world. I am not afraid of anyone, or of what anyone can do. My life up to the age of 62 has been all winter”. Held at Wandsworth Prison, with his appeal rejected, he sent numerous letters to the Home Secretary complaining about his unfair treatment, his bed and his cell, ending his petition with “I have not touched my food for 24 hours, and have barely snatched 8 hours sleep in nearly five weeks”. Never once expressing any remorse for his crimes, any compassion for his victims or an apology to her family. At 9am, on 11th of March 1942 at Wandsworth Prison, Harold Dorian Trevor was executed by hanging. 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.
1 Comment
Holly McEnaney
3/12/2024 09:41:00
Theodora was my great-grandmother. Thank you for this excellent piece of research and the way you describe her as a strong woman rather than a helpless victim. 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
December 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.
|