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.
45 Manchester Street, Marylebone, W1 - (c) GoogleMaps 2004, July 2023
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 SEVENTY-TWO:
On Sunday 31st July 1949, just before midnight, Michael Martin unleashed a violent attack on a defenceless 53-year-old prostitute known locally as ‘Mona’. To the press, it seemed like an all-too-familiar story of a destitute woman who was brutally murdered by a horny drunken punter, but with time and infirmity catching up with all of us, this anonymous streetwalker’s death marked the end of an amazing criminal.
THE LOCATION:
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MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Manchester Street in Marylebone, W1; a short walk south of the brutal slaying of Sharon Pickles, two roads east of the killing of William Raven, a few doors down from the failed lobotomy of Gabrielle De Wolfe, and the same house as the ‘tragic rags’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. At 45 Manchester Street currently sits a four-storey brown-bricked Grade II listed townhouse from the 1780’s. Being renovated into pricy flats for society’s elite, its brochure is probably filled with beautiful people lounging in pristine rooms on shiny metal chairs while sipping a swanky cocktail. So it might as well say “no fatties, no foreigners, no dole scum, and if you didn’t go to Eton, holiday at Monty, or have eaten a Pringle, this is not the place for you, thank you and good day. I said GOOD DAY!” (door slam) Back in 1949, this was a 14-roomed lodging house occupied by manual labourers and impoverished families, many of whom worked in the local factories. In Room 12 on the third floor, a quiet young man who assisted at the local theatre had recently moved in, and by all accounts, he was no trouble at all. But on Sunday 31st July 1949, just before midnight, he would unleash a violent attack on a defenceless 53-year-old prostitute known locally as ‘Mona’. To the press, it seemed like an all-too-familiar story of a destitute woman who was brutally murdered by a horny drunken punter, but with time and infirmity catching up with all of us, this anonymous streetwalker’s death marked the end of an amazing criminal. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 272: Red Mist. On an unspecified date in August 1949, in an undisclosed cemetery in Wandsworth, a priest gave a by-the-book eulogy as two gravediggers piled six pine coffins into a lonely hole. With no mourners or pallbearers, they stood with resigned silence as this job encroached on a tea-break, being unbothered as they buried a baby who died of croup, a malnourished pensioner, an unnamed tramp, a stack of unidentified remains left over from the blitz, and another prostitute murdered in London’s West End. With no flowers nor headstones on this council-funded grave, the only way to tell who they once were was by the cheap brass plaque on the lid, bearing only their name. One was etched ‘Margaret Reid’ and although no-one knew who she was, and no-one could be certain if this was even her real name… …she lived a life which was truly fascinating, and yet, ultimately heartbreaking. Margaret lived a life of lies, so unearthing her truth has been a labour of love for long time. Born in Dublin in 1897, or possibly 1894, her age is impossible to tell, as later in life she wasn’t averse to shave a few years off and even a decade when it suited her, and having gone under several aliases like ‘Maggie Reid’, ‘Elsie Brown’ and ‘Monica Reeves’, it likely that her real name was Annie Beamish. Being a mystery, we know nothing about her parents, her siblings, her childhood or her circumstances, so what drove her to lead a life of crime will never be known. What is certain is that Annie Beamish wasn’t just a prostitute and a thief, she was a one-woman crime wave, and the scourge of the city. To many, Annie looked like nothing but a little slip of a girl, being just 5-foot 1-inches tall with a fair physique, her hair was always neat, her make-up was subtle, and she wore pretty dresses and fancy bonnets. With her perfume smelling delicately of lavender and her jewellery affordable but never showy, she neither stood out as a social climber, a gold-digger, or a con artist - as that was the point. Aged just 20, where-as as many women in her position either worked for a pittance, sold their bodies for sex or resorted to pinching, Annie was a gifted thief who was cunning and devious. Being young, pretty and with the voice and demeanour of a middle-class assistant, having trawled the classified ads, she would be invited - by appointment - to view a wealth of respectable homes. Stating “I am seeking apartments for two gentlemen coming from America”, all it would take would be a swift slight-of-hand or being left alone for longer than it takes to blink, and Annie would have swiped something special. On the 28th of January 1914, Annie Beamish was tried at Southern Police Court in Dublin, Described as an “industrious thief”, in a 10-week-period, this one-woman-crimewave had stolen a set of furs, a lady’s golf coat, several silver watches, numerous silver chains, a brooch, a mink stole, several purses, a leather handbag and a fountain pen from at least 30 houses in Dublin’s more respectable districts. No-one knew she had swiped these expensive trinkets or cherished heirlooms until hours or days later, and although sentenced to three months hard labour, it was hardly a deterrent for this skilful crook. It was a scam Annie had perfected, but having gone from an anonymous thief to an infamous scourge, a few years later, she fled Dublin and headed somewhere where her face and methods were unknown. In 1917, Annie moved to London, and having adopted the airs and graces of a Sergeant Major’s wife, under the alias of ‘Mrs Monica Reeves’, several homes were looted in Croydon using the same tactics, and as a supposed first-time offender (in this country at least) she was bound over for just 12 months. In her teens and twenties, Annie had a knack for theft… …but as she approached her thirties, it somehow left. On 8th July 1919, under the alias of ‘Mona Reeves’, Annie was sentenced to three months hard labour at West London Police Court. Having lost her fast hand and her ability to blend in, she’d tried to swipe a purse on a bus, but being seen, although she pitifully threw herself at her victim’s mercy by claiming to be a war widow and the mother of a gravely sick child, unable to disprove her lies, she was arrested. It’s odd, but as her aliases changed, the backstory she invented for herself seemed to both mask and mirror what was lacking in her life; a nice home, a respectable husband, children, money and stability. Over ten years, she’d gone from a young and nimble con-artist who ate well and slept in fine hotels, but getting older, slower and shabbier, now she couldn’t escape the mistakes of her own making. Arrested again, having stolen a gold watch and a leather trunk from a lodging house in Hammersmith, she received three further months hard labour, and her Irish criminal record was sent to England, along with her fingerprints, her mugshots, her past convictions, her methods and all of her many aliases. By 1920, looking a little too tatty to charm her way into a rich man’s home, but still being pretty enough to catch the eye of a horny young man, Annie began using her fading looks as the bait in a honeytrap. On the 4th of August 1920, having picked up a punter called Benno Weiss in Piccadilly Circus, she lured him back to his Pimlico flat with the promise of sex, but before any ‘sweaty bumpy-rumpy’ took place, she robbed him of £11 (about £600 today) and fled. It wasn’t subtle or cunning, but she was desperate. February the next year, she tried the same trick again with two other girls, but failing to spot that their mark was that same man, by 1921, when another robbed punter saw her in a pub and swung a punch at her, although a man called James Robert Syrett came to her defence, this was in fact her pimp. When arrested, Annie was given the choice; pay a fine or spend eight days in prison. She chose hard labour, stating “I’d rather do the time than go back with him”, as her life had turned to hell. By 1921, with her face bruised, her nose broken and her cheeks flushed red, Annie was arrested again, this time for “using insulting words and drunken behaviour”. With police records describing her as ‘low class’ and ‘common’, the master criminal was gone, replaced by “a hard-living, hard-drinking whore”. In 1925, James Syrett, her ‘husband’ and pimp was convicted of ‘living off her immoral earnings’ for the last three years. Having punched her black and blue, and leaving her with fractured ribs, a fractured eye socket and a face so swollen she was unable to testify against him having almost killed her, he was sentenced to three months hard labour – the same length of time she spent inside for stealing a purse. She finally escaped him the following year as he was persistently imprisoned for pimping and violent assault, but with her being a shambling drunk who sold sex to buy booze and (if she was lucky) a hearty meal and a warm bed, the next decade of her life was spent as a nobody… … to everyone except a few punters and the police. The 1930s were hard on women. Being unmarried, childless and entering her forties, Annie was seen as an outcast, with no husband to provide for her and no children to look after her in her old age. With her brain clouded by drink, she no longer had the cunning to pull off a daring heist, so instead, she resorted to stealing notes from a punter’s wallet, which often ended in her being arrested or beaten. Seen as ‘damaged goods’, the only man this ragged mess could hope to get the ‘eye’ from was a pimp, a drunk or an abuser. Her looks had gone, her charm was forgotten, the weight had piled on, and she was slow, malnourished and miserable as the stresses of her failing life were etched across her face. By the late 1940s, having been a prostitute for two decades and a criminal for two-thirds of her life, all she knew was deception. She couldn’t do an honest day’s work if she tried, and she couldn’t help but lie. She was a thief to her core, and all she had left was drink, theft and sex, and that was now an issue. Possibly during wartime, off a punter, Annie had contracted Venereal Disease. With penicillin yet to become commonplace as a cure and the National Health Service in its infancy, she couldn’t afford to eradicate this disease, so – although her life revolved around what money she could make by selling sex – left with an itchy, swollen and bloody vagina with an infected discharge, sex was often too painful. The fascinating life of Annie Beamish the one-women crime wave was almost over. It could have ended in any number of ways; a glorious shoot out like Bonnie Parker or in the electric chair like Martha Place. Only Annie wasn’t at the peak of her powers, or an infamous femme fatale who haunted the headlines, she was just a shambling shadow of her former self, whose body had given up in so many ways… …and yet, her tragic end came at the chance encounter with an ordinary boy. Born in Dublin in 1927, unlike Annie, Michael Joseph Martin was an unremarkable young man; he was said to be calm, kind and even tempered. Coming from a working-class family, he hadn’t experienced the finer things in life, so he never coveted them. He knew his place in life and was content with that. Said to be of an average build and an average height, with an average look and an average intelligence, Michael was average. He didn’t stand out and he didn’t do anything to draw attention to himself. He wasn’t loud, timid or attention-seeking, and (until that moment) he hadn’t committed a criminal act. Aged seven, his mother died, and although his father remarried, it left a gaping hole in his heart. With her love, cuddles and soothing songs absent from his life, he always felt like something was missing, as on the rare occasions that he sought out a girlfriend, she couldn’t replace the love he was longing. As an average student, he left school aged 14, but he struggled to find work, as not being a burly guy, he lacked the physical strength for manual labour, and the intelligence for a desk job. In 1945, with the war over and seeing the city reopening after six years of darkness, Michael came to London, and even though the Labour Exchange found him several jobs as a garage hand, a builder’s boy and several delivery jobs, aged 22, he found his calling as a theatre attendant in the West End. The hours were long and late, but it wasn’t demanding work, which was lucky as he was not a well man. Three years earlier, he’d begun vomiting. At first it was intermittent, then daily, then every time he ate. In March 1947, admitted to Harefield Hospital, he was diagnosed with an ‘oesophageal spasm’, an ailment he’d had since childhood meaning that any food or liquid couldn’t pass fully into the stomach. Exacerbated in adulthood, his sickness had made him painfully thin, ghostly pale and always tired. One year before, surgeons at the Harefield Thoracic Surgical Unit had attempted to rectify this fault by crushing his spasming nerve, but as this failed, a fortnight later, he underwent a major operation which resulted in his left chest wall ripped open, the muscles fused and his eighth and ninth ribs removed. Whilst in recovery, he got a tubercular infection of the upper part of both lungs, which left him wheezy, and although the surgery meant he was able to swallow some solids, even touching the scar down his chest made him wince, any knocks caused him distress, and any punches or falls left him in agony. Never one to give up, still he worked, still he earned, and still he tried to live his life as best he could. Michael was lonely, he wanted a girlfriend but being too shy to ask, instead he got acquainted with a solitary prostitute who plied her trade outside of his theatre on Shaftesbury Avenue. He knew her only as ‘Elsie’, as long forgotten was Monica Reeves, Margaret Reid, as well as the real Annie Beamish. He later admitted, “I met her about eight months ago. We used to step out and that, go to the pictures and places to eat, then I’d go to bed with her”. He wasn’t a deviant or a sadist, he was just a bit sad. To see them walking hand-in-hand through Soho, it was clear they were an odd match. A painfully pale and skinny 22-year-old theatre attendant who wheezed and often walked with a slight stoop, and a 53-year-old slightly ragged sex-worker, who still tried to look as pretty as she once did when this superior con-women was at the top of her game, but now bloated with drink, she resembled a bad drag act. He never said why he picked her; maybe she was the cheapest, maybe hearing her Dublin accent made him feel closer to home, or given her age, as a boy who liked to hug, maybe he was missing his mum? If he’d wanted a mother-figure, he could have done better, as having been a criminal for more than 30 years, all Annie knew was theft, deception and cunning, she always stole and she couldn’t help but lie. “When we got going, she started to make a pest of herself. She started annoying me for money and I hadn’t any to give her”, Michael said, “I wanted to give it up. She got nasty”, often getting violent, “and she threatened me with the police. She’d say ‘I used to ponce on her’” – suggesting he was her pimp. Being too ragged to con her way into a rich man’s home, having lost her fast hand which could swipe a wallet in a heartbeat, and unwilling to engage in sex owing to her infected vagina, Annie had resorted to blackmailing her regular clients for a few quid. His life could be ruined by being charged with ‘living off immoral earnings’, and with it almost impossible to disprove, it would be his word against hers. Exasperated by her pestering, he stopped seeing her, and previously lodged at 38 Blomfield Villas, not far from Paddington station, he moved almost two miles east to 45 Manchester Street in Marylebone. He’d been there barely a week… …when on Saturday 30th of July 1949, (Michael) “I was coming home about 11:30pm”, Michael told the police, “I was walking along Baker Street, I heard someone give me a whistle”. The street was dark-lit but busy, as the pubs kicked out and passing punters sidled up to sex-workers for a nice night of nookie. “I walked on and took no notice”, he said, “I heard another whistle, turned and there she was. I know her as Elsie Brown. She was standing on the corner of Paddington Street”. Maybe it was his politeness or his loneliness, but “I got chatting to her”. Annie, now known as Elsie was selling herself, “she insisted on coming with me… and because she had started to make a scene, I agreed to take her back to my digs”. At least, that was his excuse, having had a few pints after work to ease his pain. Dressed in a blue beret, a black dress, black woollen coat and blue suede shoes, Annie still tried to look as appealing as possible, but the ravages of her life had peppered her with a tinge of sadness and loss, as she followed Michael up three flights of stairs to Room 12 – a place she would never leave. (door) His bedsit was small, barely big enough for a single bed, an armchair, a wash basin, a wardrobe and as a young lad who worked part-time as his chest was still causing him misery, he didn’t have anything for her to steal; except a shaving brush, a kitchen knife, a bible, a clock, two tatty suits and a floral tie. Michael’s statement was riddled with inconsistencies. Having invited her up, “I told her she wouldn’t be staying the night. So I started to get undressed. I said she was getting no money out of me. So, when she wouldn’t go, I opened the door, but there was no sign of her movement”. The night was warm, but with no money to get a bed in a doss house, leaving now meant she’d end up sleeping in a doorway. “She kept on aggravating me”, as having lost her charm, all she could do was pester. “She drove me crackers with her tongue and called me an Irish fuckpig” which was odd as they both came from Dublin. “She was swearing all the time”, her screaming echoing off the walls, “and she made a wallop at me”. With a single blow, she struck him hard in the chest, right over his scar. To anyone else, her limp slap would have been like a gnat headbutting cotton bud, but still being bandaged, scarred and very tender, it buckled him to his knees, and as pain ripped across his face, this usually placid man saw a red mist. “I was in a raging temper… I cannot bear anyone to thump me on the chest. So I gave her one or two across the chops with my fist. I don’t know what came over me. I hit her again and went to the floor”. The lodgers heard her screams, “I heard a woman saying ‘don’t Danny, you must be mad’” as another herd “a succession of six or seven heavy bangs on the floor followed by two of three thuds, one of which was especially heavy, shaking the entire building. I heard a groan from the room above”. Racing from the basement, Dorothy Green the housekeeper banged on the door, shouting “leave her alone”, and having unlocked it, “I put a light on as the room was in darkness. I saw him, stripped to the waist and bending over a woman on the floor, his hands were covered in blood, right up to his elbows”. All she saw was Annie’s legs, but fearing a further attack, “I locked the door and sent for the police”. 15 minutes later, PC Duddy arrived from Marylebone Lane Police Station. “As I entered the room, I saw the man, half naked, both hands bloodied, he did not run, struggle or flee, he seemed to be in shock”, all he could hear him say was ‘oh my god, oh my god’”, as he started down at what he had done. On the floor lay Annie, alive but broken, barely able to speak but her words inaudible as she choked on her own blood. Michael said he remembered slapping her once or twice, but her lips were puffy and split, her nose had twisted like a snapped twig, her teeth waggled loosely in her bloodied mess of a mouth, and although her arms and hands fought off his frenzied attack, her face had been crushed. The pathologist said “at some point she had lost consciousness… whilst on the ground she sustained some crushing facial injuries... attributed to either kicking or even stamping on the body with the foot”. Rushed to St Mary’s Hospital, Annie died the next day, as these were not the worst of her injuries. Michael confessed “I made sure she wouldn’t nag me again” and grabbing a 12-inch kitchen knife from his dresser, “I stabbed her. I think I did it more than once. I think that’s all”, only he did much more. When PC Duddy arrived, he said “she was choking, blood was spurting from her mouth”, as along with her crush injuries, she had 13 slashes to her skin and 10 stab wounds to her face, neck, chest, and with the knife protruding between the 2nd and 3rd ribs, it had penetrated 2 ¾ inches into the left lung. As she breathed, bloodied air bubbles popped by the side of the blade, which had bent through force. A few days later, Annie Beamish, the forgotten one-woman crime wave was mistakenly buried under the alias of ‘Margaret Reid’ in a council-funded coffin at an undisclosed cemetery with no mourners. Some said that this career criminal who had brought misery to Dublin had got her comeuppance for all the bad she had done. But did she really reserve to die in such a horrific and tragic way? (End) Taken to Marylebone Lane Police Station, drenched in blood, still in shock and too drunk to answer any questions, Michael was left in a cell to sober up, and later confessed to stabbing her. A psychiatric report at Brixton Prison confirmed he was mentally and physically fit to stand trial, and on 11th of September 1949, the one-day trial was held at the Old Bailey before Justice Steathfield. Pleading ‘not guilty’ to murder, Michael was asked “did you mean to kill this woman?”, he replied “no. it was in temper. I couldn’t help myself. I did not realise what I was doing”, at which Mr Hawke for the Prosecution prodded “did you mean to stab her?”, at which he replied “yes, but not mean to kill her”. Later that day, with the jury finding enough grounds, Michael Joseph Martin was sentenced to 10 years in prison on the charge of manslaughter by provocation, and as a first offender, he was out in 7. Michael Martin was an ordinary man who was pushed to the limits of his pain by a set of unfortunate circumstances. By chance he met Annie Beamish, and through poverty and desperation, she punched him in the one place which led to his blind rage and red mist, and ultimately to her brutal murder. Annie Beamish was a criminal, a habitual thief and a brilliant con woman who – although the scourge of an entire city - made the best of a bad life through her deviousness and her cunning. But criminals rarely live long or even profitable lives, its mostly a myth focussed around the period when they’re at the top of their game, and then as her powers waned, the real Annie Beamish was lost and forgotten. Who she was, we shall never know, and the whereabout of her grave is currently unknown. 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.
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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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