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.
the infamous 'From Hell' letter
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-EIGHT:
Across October and early November 1888, when 'Jack the Ripper' slayed several women in the East End of London, a smaller and largely forgotten sexual sadist was attacking women in Soho in the West End. Masked using a series of baffling distractions, his crimes were made possible owing to the fevered frenzy in the midst of a mini media mania committed in the Ripper's shadow. But who was he, was it a hoax, or did he even exist?
THE LOCATION:
The location is marked with a teal symbol of a bin just by the words 'Soho' off Wardour Street. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other maps, click here.
SOURCES: a selection sourced from the National Archives and the Metropolitan Archives:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Bourchier Street in Soho, W1; a few paces east from the spot where Captain Ritchie was bricked, a few doors west from the last plea of Henry Hall, a few doors up from the beating of Baby Richard, and the same street as the dog who saw it all - coming soon to Murder Mile. Formerly called Little Dean Street, Bourchier Street connects Dean Street and Wardour Street. As little more than a dark drab alley where the eateries of Old Compton Street park their sticky oozing bins and the frequently soused empty their bladders, for good reason, it’s the most avoided part of Soho. For those who don’t watch where they’re walking, a common items to step on in this street are usually a puddle of piddle, a splat of sick, a splash of gentleman’s relish seconds after a sex show, a used condom (of course), a pair of spoiled trousers, a pineapple shaped butt-plug, dirty syringes and faeces. Yet, these aren’t the oddest things found on this street, as back in November 1888 was found an eye. A human eye, fully intact, red raw from a recent trauma, and bobbing about in an overflowing gutter. Barely yards away, the body of Eliza Shad lay in her bed, recently dead. Only no-one would find her body for days, as with this speck of West London gripped by the panic that an infamous East End killer was stalking the denizens of Soho, they were looking the wrong way at the wrong thing. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 278: In the Ripper’s Shadow. Three miles east of Soho in the similarly dank and sleezy working-class district of Whitechapel, gossip was forming in the terrified mouths of its inhabitants that a sadistic serial killer was slaying women. Rumblings that something sinister was brewing had begun since the unsolved murders of Emma Smith and Martha Tabram. On the 31st of August, the sadistic killing of Mary Ann Nichols sparked a manhunt for an extortionist nicknamed Leather Apron leading to misinformation, accusation and anti-Semitism. On 8th of September, with Annie Chapman’s body found in the back yard of 29 Hanbury Street, both deaths were connected, some say tenuously. But following the double-murder of Elizabeth Stride on Berner Street and Catherine Eddowes in Mitre Square - half a mile and 45 minutes apart – so desperate were the Police to arrest him and so ravenous were the press for stories, that on the 1st of October, the infamous Dear Boss letter was made public and the name Jack the Ripper would forever be known. With a city in panic, tabloids slathered over the sensation of a serial killer on the loose, especially when George Lusk was posted half a human kidney. And although some supposed facts and alleged evidence was fabricated when the newspaper’s circulation waned, a mass hysteria enveloped the East End and as the petrified public clambered for more, a dark tourism sprung-up as flocks of grisly gorpers dashed to Whitechapel, with it culminating (some say) on the 9th of November and the massacre of Mary Kelly. Whether he existed or not, the idea of Jack the Ripper turned the East End into a frenzy of fear… …and yet, at the same time, a little piece of horror went largely unreported in Soho. It start unremarkably. Friday 5th of October 1888 was typical of most days in Soho. Hours before the dawn-light had cracked the sky and shone a blast of brilliant light on Berwick Street, the costermongers and traders were setting up the market for the day. Being surrounded by slums, hostels and tuppenny lodgings, vendors sold affordable fare for the most impoverished; like bread, eggs and fish, vegetables like potatoes, carrots and parsnips, fruits like apples but nothing exotic, and - being abundant and cheap - oysters. At around 7am, an unnamed Constable who had been patrolling his beat along Wardour Street, turned onto the light bustle of Peter Street, and as he entered the market, his nose recoiled at a horrific smell. So pungent it made his eyes water, this reek of rotten cabbage was enough to make him retch, as in the gutter – swarming in flies who feverishly fed off its decomposition - lay a coiled pile of intestines. No-one thought for a second that it might be human, they just assumed it was animal, probably a pig. It had gone unnoticed and ordinarily it would have been ignored, but with the Constable being a proud local who liked his streets clean, he insisted the cat meat trader, a man called Tam clean up the out-of-date offal from the gutter, even though he had no intestines on sale. Sparking a big old hullaballoo of loud voices, before the festering guts could be got rid of, a pack of hungry dogs had wolfed it down. Tam was given a stern warning, and later released, and that was it. As I said, it started unremarkably, with this side of Soho seeing a few minor crimes that morning, including a watch theft, a broken vase, and at nearby 28 Peter Street, a prostitute called Eliza Smyth claimed she’d been groped in her sleep. It was just an ordinary day in Soho, if anything, it was a bit quiet. Six days later, in the mid-afternoon of Thursday 11th, a group of kids were heard squealing hysterically on the corner of Denman Street and Denman Place, just off Piccadilly Circus. With a local seamstress growing increasingly annoyed by their noise, she was ready to clip them about the earholes, when she saw what they were poking and prodding excitedly – on the spike of an iron railing was a bloody heart. Fresh, red and dripping, everyone assumed it was a pig’s (probably stolen off the market) and with the tale of the intestines having not made it this far, she tossed it in a basement and it was eaten by rats. That day was just another ordinary day in Soho, except a few doors down at an undisclosed lodging, a prostitute nicknamed ‘Swiss Annie’ woke from an overlong sleep, in which she felt unusually woozy, her throat felt sore and her breasts felt tender. Being ashamed, she told only her closest friends. With news of the East End ripper permeating from one red-light district to another, these seemingly insignificant events in Soho wouldn’t be recorded until weeks later, so their accuracy is questionable. But the next one isn’t. Tuesday 16th of October, the same day it was said that George Lusk received the infamous ‘From Hell’ letter and half a kidney, on Sutton Row off Charing Cross Road, human teeth were found scattered, all were bloody with their roots till intact. It caused a commotion, as all were different shades of yellow and brown, many were rotten, but there were too many for a single mouth, some said as many as 50. Two hours later and 40 feet north in Falconberg Mews, a prostitute nicknamed ‘Lady Jane’ or ‘Lazy Jayne’ was found collapsed and semi-conscious, her petticoat missing, her breasts and neck sore, and although she had no head wound nor missing teeth, she also had no memory of how she got there. Jayne Jones (an alias) gave a statement, only it was destroyed when Vine Street Police Station closed. But were those two incidents – the teeth and the attack – connected or a coincidence? With Whitechapel only three miles away, and the name ‘Jack the Ripper’ on everybody’s lips, rumours started to circulate that – maybe – Soho had its own sexual sadist who had already made his first kill. Over the weeks of mid-to-late October 1888, the city saw an unusually cold fog descend and shroud its streets in a choking cloak of impenetrable grey, synonymous with depictions of the Ripper’s London. It is said, although reports were sketchy, that more body parts were found scattered or neatly placed. Monday 22nd, Hanway Place in Fitzrovia, a ponytail was spotted having been hacked-off near the scalp, yet it was bloodless and fleshless. Some suggested an impoverished women was on her way to sell it as wealthy ladies paid a pretty penny for good wigs. Yet, just south on nearby Hanway Street, Emma Jewson awoke in her bed, feeling dizzy, confused with five bruises to her throat in the shape of a hand. But again, was it connected? With domestic violence and drunkenness so commonplace, the Police dismissed this as “a good time girl” who “got what she deserved” from her husband or her punter. Thursday 25th, Baimbridge Street at the back of the old Horseshoe Brewery, a liver was found. Said to be human, although it was impossible to differentiate it from a pig’s, witnesses said it was “wrapped in a woman’s dress”, some said it “sat on a cloth”, and others said it was “near a cloth”. That day, Alice or Anna Dedmun was choked unconscious by a left-handed man in the nearby Horseshoe Hotel. Her liver wasn’t removed, neither was Jayne’s teeth or Emma’s hair, yet rumours spread that the body part belonged to each victim and was a grisly trophy or as a warning to others. And although a plausible reason could be given for each – whether unwanted animal offal, the theft of a barber’s tooth jar, or a simple purchase from a butcher’s stall - it was all about to take a much darker and sinister turn. Sunday 28th, on Flitcroft Street (then called Little Denmark Street), a dirty severed finger was found. Rumours said it had “nail polish” or “a wedding ring”, but with no proof it was a woman’s, we can’t discount that this area of St Giles was full of factories and accidents were commonplace. And yet again, in a doorway at 23 Denmark Place, ‘Minnie’ Jones, a Welsh prostitute was strangled and almost killed. With no memory of the attack, her assailant or the moments prior, her skirt was ripped, she had five bruises to her throat and neck as made by “a leftie with big hands”, she had a missing finger only this wasn’t hers, and yet, a cut had been sliced into her right cheek in the shape of a ‘W’, or two ‘V’s. Again, this could be seen as a coincidence, a remarkable coincidence, if indeed it was true. But could this have been a bizarre distraction by the assailant to draw the public’s attention from his real crimes? It was an era of excitable frenzy, when people wanted to believe that a serial killer was on the loose, or that – as some gossips cruelly suggested - that ‘Minnie’ had done this to herself for attention. Before the murder of Eliza Shad, one more body part was found - a tongue, pinned to a door on Smith’s Court with a note which read “I lov rippin hors” (all badly written and misspelled) with a trail of blood leading through a door, upstairs to an empty lodging. Occurring not long after the Whitechapel double murder and the publication of the ‘Dear Boss’ letter in which its author claiming to Jack the Ripper stated “am down on whores and I shant quit ripping them till I do get buckled”, this could be a copy-cat, a hoax, or maybe it never happened? That’s the curse of attempting to unearth fact when the press and the people are more fascinated by salacious guff or grisly aspects, that the truth gets lost in a quagmire of lies. With the East End Ripper taking all the newsprint, Soho’s seemingly insignificant little sex-pest was barely reported. Recounted weeks and (in many cases) months later, by then, those memories had become hazy and exaggerated. For many, it was uncertain if he was fake, or a sadist hiding in the Ripper’s shadow… …yet that didn’t stop a mini mania from erupting across Soho. By the start of November 1888, as several Ripper suspects were named and blamed with the so-called evidence against them being so flimsy it wouldn’t stand up in a court of law, a similar witch-hunt was underway in Soho, as the easily angered with their own axe to grind set out to accuse any undesirables. As happens when mouths run faster than brains, any man seen with either victim in the hours prior was hounded and anyone seen walking by at the time was said to have been “suspiciously loitering”. One suspect was said to have “had a knife”, only it was later said he was “eating an apple”. One man was said to have been seen “fondling” one of the women, only he turned out to be her boyfriend. And one mysteriously “had his face always covered with a hanky”, yet it turned out he had a winter cold. Seizing the opportunity to stick the boot in on anyone they had a gripe with, abandoned wives blamed their unfaithful-husbands, businessmen blamed their ex- partners, and sibling rivalries exploded into finger-pointing, as anyone with a grudge, used this series of unsolved attacks to settle an old score. Therefore its unsurprising that – even though not one of the women had any memory of her attacker – that a list of alleged “eyewitness” descriptions “by the girls” drifted from street to street with little embellishments added in each retelling. The men they were on the hunt for included “a man in his 20s, average height and build in a black suit and hat”, as lynch mobs love vagueness. “An Irish labourer, 30s, big hands, fat head, scarred and a dirty suit”, as well as xenophobic descriptions like “a drunken Pole”, “a swarthy foreigner”, “a Jew with sinister eyes” and any enemy of the era whether homeless, disabled, depressed or disfigured, the mentally unwell, homosexuals, and those seen as degenerates. In short, the usual suspects for bigots and racists. Some blamed it in Soho murderer William Crees even though he’d been in Broadmoor since 1883, a shooting that month on Frith Street was tenuously linked even though none of the victims were shot, with some saying it was an extortion gang, some said it was a prostitute was taking out her rivals, a corrupt copper doing the job the law wouldn’t allow him to do, and others blamed opium and Absinth. As for the body parts, some suggested it was the work of a rogue mortician, a dodgy undertaker, or a lazy barber (as in that era, for the poorest, a hairdresser was also a dentist and a surgeon). It was implied it was a prank by medical students at the London School of Anatomy on nearby Dean Street, and that it was (somehow) an advert for the new play ‘The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde’ which was causing a sensation on the West End stage. But many locals believed it was the tabloid press trying to conjure up a little excitement as had gripped the East End, only being so corny, no-one believed it. Fearing a panic, the Police (said to be under the guidance of local business leaders) were keen to keep a lid on this, as where there’s fear there’s panic. In their favour, the East End Ripper was so infamous that this West End Fondler (and some say, strangler) had hijacked all the press coverage, and with any link between the victim and a body part being so ludicrous, it was dismissed as a mere scaremongering. It died, before it even became a thing. And unlike Jack the Ripper, he wasn’t given a sinister nickname. The problem was (as much as the people wanted a scare story) this wasn’t a series of victimless crimes, as women had been attacked. All were unusually similar, having been drugged, fondled and strangled to the point of near-death, it was said “one had been bitten” and he had escalated to minor mutilation. If connected, someone had deliberately laid a series of distractions as they wanted time with each woman, so it’s possible that – if this was one man - he had chosen them, as this required planning. This frenzy of excitement died as quickly as it arose, and yet, as rumours spread, any new victims found it impossible to be believed, so they didn’t report it. For many women, this was real, but with the myth becoming little more than a joke, many weren’t believed by their own families, let alone by the Police. Only for one more women, this would end in her death. Eliza Shad was a 23-year-old mother-of-one, at least that’s what we think. Said to have been born in or about 1865, she doesn’t appear on any census and she doesn’t have a birth or a death certificate. Conspiracy theorists might decry this as the corrupt elite trying to erase her history to hide a sinister plot, but many records have been lost in office moves, destroyed in the blitz, mistakes made when they were digitised or mis-transcribed when they were first written, and with even official documents like autopsy reports and police files listing a person by their alias, what we know about Eliza (if that is her name) was reported by those who claimed to know her, so must be taken with a pinch of salt. Eliza’s life was the epitome of tragic. It was said, the first sounds she uttered was her wailing tears which echoed down the dark cold walls of a local workhouse infirmary. She wouldn’t remember her father, as before she was born, he had abandoned his wife and children having become a slave to the demon drink and his fate was unknown. As for her mother? She never felt her hug, as like so many women before her, she died in childbirth. Raised by an older sister who was little more than a child herself, she received a basic education and was trained to mend clothes and cook, so at best, she would become a wife or a servant. As far as we know, she never married, so not being seen as a person in her own right, her life went undocumented. Like many of the most impoverished, she lived a hand-to-mouth existence, never knowing if she’d eat that day. Being transient, she never had a home, at best she scraped together a few pennies for a bed in a hostel or a lodging, and at worst, she slept in doorways, sheds or outhouses, shivering in the cold. With no family, it was said her first baby died before it took a breath. The second she had miscarried having been beaten by her drunken boyfriend. And bruised black and blue, her third child was taken by the beadle as she was deemed an unfit mother simply because she couldn’t escape her horrific life. Sunday 4th of November 1888 was a brutally cold day, but Eliza’s luck seemed to be turning a corner. That morning, she went about her usual routine, by going to St Anne’s church for prayers, and having passed 28 Peter Street where a month earlier Eliza Smyth claimed she had been groped in her sleep, she headed to nearby Berwick Street market, where that same day, the festering intestines had been seen. Here she bought bread, cheese and milk, a little bacon and some welks, as in her purse she had enough money to ensure her belly was full. It must have felt odd to be eating as having tried to kick the drink, as a prostitute she would have usually squandered it, but this time, she was able to afford a lodging. It was a big step for an alcoholic, and having paid for three nights board sleeping on a filthy flea-ridden bed made of horsehair and straw in an unidentified lodging house of a Mrs Crowmar, it was something. That night, as a foul wind howled down Old Compton Street, it was said she brought back three men to her lodging on Little Dean Street, and although this dark urine-soaked alley hardly cut a romantic tone, they weren’t here for kissing and cuddling. But was one of them a sadist with an odd obsession? According to the other lodgers, Eliza was discrete, so none of the men were ever seen. No-one heard any cries or screams, as it’s likely she had been drugged. And – if this was true - having laid a bizarre distraction, he had his wicked way with her in the seclusion of her room, and no one was any wiser. On Wardour Street, beside a little path leading to Little Dean Street, a crowd had gathered, larger than usual, as they giggled with grisly fascination at the gory sight before them – a human eye, intact and red raw from a fresh trauma. Having poked it, it plopped into an overflowing gutter where it bobbed. Grabbing it by the optic nerve which dangled at the rear of this bloody bulb, a boy waved it in a girl’s terrified face, and although these spectators laughed, it drew their gaze from something truly sinister. Wednesday 7th of November, three days later, with her rent having expired, the landlady knocked on Eliza’s door and asked her to leave. Getting no reply, she entered and found her cold and dead. (end) Like a carbon copy of previous assaults, Eliza had been drugged so she lay unconscious, paralysed and at her attacker’s whim. Her petticoat had been removed and left neatly folded on a chair. Her breast was exposed and covered in a dried blood which wasn’t hers. And on her thigh was a single bitemark. Again, a small ‘W’ or ‘double V shaped’ cut was found on her cheek, although the police surgeon said it could have been a scratch from the side table. And like the others, with no defensive wounds, her throat and neck was etched the bruises of a left-hander who had taken her to the very edge of death. It seemed as if he liked to play God with these girls, by taking their lives and giving it back, but unaware that having lived such a hard life (barely covered in a sodden blanket as she slept in cold doorways), Eliza had suffered with asthma, and having taken her too far, her lungs were too weak to recover. Dismissed by the police as ‘a possible accident’ by an over amorous lover or punter, being a prostitute who they said may have engaged in indecent acts like sadomasochism, no-one was arrested or sought. And as the last of this series of bizarre assaults over a month of sadistic madness, was this a mistake, was this someone else’s alibi, or the escalation of a wannabe serial killer who had made his first kill? Investigated by Detective Thomas Bowden, the case was wrapped up and filed away as solved. No-one was brought to trial, no-one was even suspected, and it has remained forgotten for 136 years. It is unknown whether he fled, killed himself, was jailed for a similar crime which was never connected, if he was sent to an asylum, or quit owing to the grief that his odd sexual perversion had taken a life. His identity shall remain a mystery, and yet the biggest mystery remains, if any of it was even true. 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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