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EPISODE NINETY-ONE:
Today’s episode isn’t about the victim, it’s about her murderer. His identity isn’t a mystery; we know his name, his age and (based on witness descriptions) he would later become known as ‘the sad faced killer’; we know what he did, when he did it and where, but the one detail we can’t explain is why?
THE LOCATION
As many photos of the case are copyright protected by greedy news organisations, to view them, take a peek at my entirely legal social media accounts - Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.
The location of the Sura Hotel at 162 Sussex Gardens is where the yellow triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as Soho, King's Cross, Paddington or the John George Haigh or Reg Christie locations, you access them by clicking here.
I've also posted some photos to aid your "enjoyment" of the episode. These photos were taken by myself (copyright Murder Mile) or granted under Government License 3.0, where applicable.
Included in this picture are two articles about the "Nylons Murder" as the press initially dubbed it, a possible photo of Donald Westgarth Davidson (although this can't be verified) and in the centre is a redacted copy of one of the pages from the police file.
Credits: The Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast was researched, written and recorded by Michael J Buchanan-Dunne, with the sounds recorded on location (where possible), and the music written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Additional music was written and performed as used under the Creative Common Agreement 4.0. SOURCES: This episode was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archive. Sadly one file is held until 2047 and the open file has 127 pages redacted. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C554687 MUSIC:
TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: THE SAD FACED KILLER. SCRIPT: Welcome to Murder Mile; a true-crime podcast and audio guided walk featuring many of London’s untold, unsolved and long-forgotten murders, all set within and beyond the West End. Today’s episode isn’t about the victim, it’s about her murderer. His identity isn’t a mystery; we know his name, his age and (based on witness descriptions) he would later become known as ‘the sad faced killer’; we know what he did, when he did it and where, but the one detail we can’t explain is why? Murder Mile is researched using the original police files. It contains moments of satire, shock and grisly details, and as a dramatization of the real events, it may also feature loud and realistic sounds, so that no matter where you listen to this podcast, you’ll feel like you’re actually there. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 91: The Sad-Faced Killer. Today I’m back on Sussex Gardens in Paddington, W2; one street south of the pub where Reg Christie met Kathleen Maloney, two streets east of the torture of Vincent Keighery, a few doors up from The Blackout Ripper’s final victim Doris Jouanette and three stops south-east of a bungled assassination by Carlos the Jackal, or as he should now be known Carlos the Jackass - coming soon to Murder Mile. This is familiar territory; east is Edgware Road, south is Hyde Park, north is Paddington station and to the west is Bayswater. As before, Sussex Gardens is a tree-lined street with (oddly) no gardens, just parking bays, and on both sides are five-storey terraces with white plaster work below and brown brick above. It’s looks posh, but the famous don’t live here, as for at least the last century, half of these houses were converted into hotels and motels for truckers, trekers and back-packers, sightseers, salesmen and sex-workers, and although 99% of its residents are all legit, it does have a long history as the home of the bouncy bed bonkers, the one-hour willy whackers and the fifty-quid fanny fillers. I mean, yes, lots of decent people do stay here, but don’t be surprised if you see a slew of fat old blokes on shopping trips with their “daughters”, “granddaughters” and often “great granddaughters” (ewe) who sign-in as Mr & Mrs Smith, seem very touchy-feely and although it’s lovely outside, they spend the next fifty-eight minutes inside, doing aerobics, grunting and decorating the room with oddly-shaped balloons. And as Olga, or whatever daddy’s daughter’s name is today is given £300 quid for her taxi-ride home, the maid has to decide whether to boil wash the sheets or just burn them. Previously called the Saura Hotel, 162 Sussex Gardens is now a pleasant motel known as the Stylotel; it’s affordable, clean and its reviews are consistently good. And although, as any tourist checks in, they’re probably given a list of places to visit, I doubt anyone ever mentions the murder in Room 12. As it was here, on Saturday 27th May 1950, that a young woman was brutally murdered by a maniac who the press would dub the ‘Sad Faced Killer’… but to his family, his name was Donald. (interstitial) Many details relating to the victim have been redacted from the police file; her life, her job, her injuries and the incident itself, so out of respect to her relatives, the details I do know won’t be revealed here. But the question we’re asking isn’t about her, it’s who was the ‘Sad Faced Killer’ and why did he kill? As murderers go, Donald was an unlikely suspect. Born on the 1st May 1921, Donald Westgarth Davidson was one of three siblings to Mary & Matthew, owners of a prosperous bakery at 21 Newbottle Street in Houghton-le-Spring, a peaceful little village nestled between Sunderland and Durham in the north-east of England. The Davidson’s were a close-knit family with a steady income, a solid work ethic and a well-deserved reputation as decent people who lived harmoniously together in a nice little thatched cottage. As a baby, Donald slept, ate and behaved well; he suffered no major illnesses, diseases or trauma, and he was never spoiled, starved or abused. He was just an ordinary little boy from a very ordinary family. At school, being small and a little bit shy, he was socially awkward but he wasn’t bullied, and although he didn’t make many friends, the ones he made, he remained loyal to. As a bright and punctual boy, he left school aged fourteen with an above average education, and learned his trade in the family bakery, working alongside his mum, his dad and his two sisters - Evelyn and Lorna. In 1941, Donald enlisted in the Army and was posted to the battlefields of France and Germany, but being a talented chef, the only injuries he sustained were a few burns in the kitchen. Here he met a new friend called Norman Tipping, he kept two souvenirs of his service including a .22 calibre Luger pistol which many servicemen did, and being demobbed in 1946, he returned to the family bakery. He was physically unimposing, being a slight five-foot-five, eight-stone weakling with sandy hair, sad eyes and a sallow complexion. In terms of character, he was always placid, calm and polite, he never argued or got into fights. Mentally, he was always busy, rarely ill and never depressed; he barely drank, smoked and never did drugs; he didn’t commit crimes, violence and he had sexual perversions. Financially, he was fine; he had no debts, good savings and few outgoings; he was generous, never short on money, and although he treated himself to a second-hand black MG 10 sports car and wore a gold signet ring with his initials of ‘DWD’, he didn’t lead a lavish lifestyle. He loved his job, his family and – as far as we know – he never had a girlfriend. Which seemed unfair, as although a little lonely, he was loving, compassionate and described in court as “one of the sweetest, kindest and big-hearted fellows that anyone could wish to meet”. Donald Davidson was hardly the killer type. And yet, in the space of a few days, the ‘Sad Faced Killer’ wouldn’t take one life… but two (Interstitial) On 1st May 1950, Donald turned twenty-nine-years-old. For weeks, he and his cousin David Hutton (a painter and decorator from Durham) had been saving up for a week long holiday in the south-west of England, as they both had a shared love of history, sightseeing, bird-watching and movies. In the early hours of Sunday 20th May, having packed a week’s worth of clothes, a set of binoculars, a map and a camera, as well as £25 to cover their bed and board, with an extra £15 (as a precautionary measure) as his little car had been a bit temperamental of late, Donald & David began their holiday. The weather was good, the views were great and the food was okay. On the Sunday night, they stayed at a family friends’ in Liverpool, the Monday at the Royal Hotel in Ross-on-Wye, the Tuesday at the Beach Hotel in Minehead and the Wednesday they stayed with Mrs Johnson, a family friend in Devon. Here he telephoned his mum (as if he didn’t, she would worry) and he sent his family a postcard. With only two nights of their holiday left, the trip going swimmingly and the car running well, to get their fill of history, sightseeing and – best of all – films, Donald & David decided to drive to London. The West End wasn’t a place Donald knew well. He’d been here three times prior; twice to a catering exhibition at the London Olympia, and once when Burnley played Charlton Athletic in the Cup Final, but this two-day detour also gave him a chance to catch-up with a pal, a relative and - as a film fan – to see many movies which only ever played in the West End and would never make it as far as Durham. Had Donald ended his holiday, and headed home as planned, two people would still be alive… …but then again, the ‘Sad Faced Killer’ hadn’t come to London to kill. Like most of his movements that weekend, although the London leg of Donald’s trip was spontaneous, almost everywhere he went was witnessed and ticketed. At 4pm, he parked-up at the British Legion carpark on Tottenham Court Road. At 4:40pm, they arrived in Soho Square where they met Margaret Jones, who was Donald’s second-cousin, and the three agreed to meet-up at noon the next day for films, fun and food. With nowhere to stay, David recommended a place he knew, and at 6pm, the two men checked into Room 42, a twin room at The Northumberland Hotel near King’s Cross station. They paid for one night, booked for three and – in his illegible scrawl – Donald signed the guests-book as ‘Mr Davidson of County Durham’. So far, the night was uneventful. But for whatever reason, with there being a hint of friction between Donald and David - perhaps over the affections of Margaret, as both men were single - as David didn’t fancy spending the evening alone and asked if he could join Donald on his visit to his old Army pal Norman Tippings, Donald left without him and (supposedly) stayed the night at Norman’s… although this detail cannot be verified. The next day was Friday 26th May. At noon, Donald met Margaret in Soho Square, and although they waited fifteen minutes, as David didn’t show, with no way to find him, they carried on without him. As before, although his movements were ad-hoc, everything Donald did was witnessed and ticketed. At 1pm, they had lunch at the Lyon’s Cornerhouse Tea Room on Tottenham Court Road, and being a gentleman, Donald paid the bill; his mood was described as upbeat, polite and pleasant. At 2pm, they saw a double-bill at the Odeon cinema on Leicester Square; ‘Mrs Mike’ starring Dick Powell and Evelyn Keyes, a love story set in the Canadian Rockies and ‘Last Holiday’ starring Alec Guinness as a salesman with only weeks to live. At 6pm, they had dinner at the Lyon’s Cornerhouse on Coventry Street. At 7pm, they went to the Ritz Cinema on Leicester Square and saw ‘The Yellow Cabman’, a comedy about a clumsy cab-driver starring Red Skelton, and at 9pm, having agreed to meet-up again the next day, Margaret said goodbye to Donald, she caught the bus home and she left him in Piccadilly Circus. Where he went next is unknown; his mood was good, the night was young and his movements didn’t seem like those of a homicidal maniac… but just four hours later, the ‘Sad Face Killer’ would strike. From what little we know; Agnes Mary Walsh was a twenty-two-year-old waitress from Galway who lived in a basement flat at 16 Mornington Terrace in Camden Town with her sister Margaret. She was slim, tall and well dressed, with long black hair, a pleasant smile and a distinctive red handbag. And that’s all I can say. I can’t tell you her life-story, I can’t speak of her hardships and I can’t help you to see this person as something more than just a victim with a name, an age and a collection of injuries, but with her details redacted, that is all she can be. And as for the rest? We can only speculate. Whether she was a prostitute is uncertain. Living in post-war London with jobs scarce, rationing tight and basic goods in short supply, it wasn’t uncommon for a woman to supplement her meagre income as a sex-worker, or as an escort, providing lonely men with an all-night girlfriend experience involving – not just sex – but also dinner, a date and conversation, as well as a warm companion in a soft bed. But based on the witness statements, even though (as a resident of Camden) Agnes had no real reason to frequent Sussex Gardens, she was well-known by the local Police, the hoteliers and the sex-workers. Of course, Donald & Agnes could have been young lovers, but given how timid he was, it seems likely. At 1:15am, on the Haymarket corner of Piccadilly Circus, Agnes approached a black cab and asked the driver “cabbie, please take us to 162 Sussex Gardens in Paddington”. Thomas James identified them both by photo and stated they seemed an odd match; as although they were polite, whereas she was bright and bubbly, he was sad-faced and sullen, almost as if he was afraid, worried or ashamed. At 1:30am, Edward Levine, manager of the Saura Hotel greeted-Agnes & Donald who were looking for a room. Recognising her but not him, as she did the talking, although Donald gave no eye-contact, no chit-chat and his words were barely above a mumble, Edward later recalled the man’s gold signet ring was embossed with his initials of ‘DWD’. Having paid thirty shillings and signed the guest book in his illegible scrawl as ‘Mr & Mrs Davidson of County Durham’, Agnes & Donald were escorted to Room 12 on the third floor, the door closed… and that is all we know. (Silence) Almost every detail of the murder was redacted… but there’s no doubt that Donald was the culprit. Of the sixteen rooms in the Saura hotel, all were occupied, no-one heard a sound and every occupant was accounted for, except Donald. The front and back doors were locked, the windows were shut, and - with Agnes having died between 2am and 4am - at 6am, Donald hailed a taxi from Sussex Gardens. Inside the small bedroom, there were no signs of a struggle, as everything was where you’d expect it to be. There wasn’t a break-in, as the door was locked from the outside. And there were no signs of rape, in fact, the pathologist would later confirm that no sex or sexual assault had taken place. So, the question isn’t how the attack took place, but why? On a double bed, huddled in a crumpled heap, dressed in her underwear, Police found the partially-naked body of Agnes. With her hair matted, her eyes black, her nose broken and her face a bloodied swollen mess, she had been beaten to a pulp with a sickening level of rage and hatred. Battered with a force so fierce, his signet ring split wide-open wounds across her cheeks, and – as his fist shattered the bones of her skull – Police knew for certain that he would have injured his hand. And after this maniac had beaten her unconscious, with a pair of her own stockings, he strangled Agnes to death. There is no denying that Donald was the ‘Sad Faced Killer’, and although he seems too small, too weak and even too timid to have inflicted such brutal and horrifying injuries on a woman he hardly knew, the evidence that he murdered Agnes Walsh was irrefutable and (later) he would confess to his crime… …but first, someone else would die. Four hours before Agnes’ body was discovered, Donald made his escape. Only his movements weren’t the mark of a maniac desperate to evade his arrest, but a troubled man traumatised by the horror he had unleashed. And as before, everything Donald did that day was witnessed and ticketed. At 6:30am, Donald return to the Northumberland Hotel in King’s Cross. Startled awake, David said his cousin looked dreadful; a dirty, crumpled, rambling wreck who couldn’t account for his whereabouts, or his injuries, having sustained claw-marks to his left cheek, a fracture to his right fist and his finger being badly swollen as his bloodied signet ring had buckled. With Donald fighting back the tears and clearly being too ashamed to admit the truth, David didn’t ask what happened, and they left it at that. At 12:30pm, as previously agreed, Donald & David met Margaret Jones outside of the Swan & Edgar pub in Piccadilly for another delightful day of films, fun and food, but Donald looked lost and distant. At 1pm, they lunched again at the Lyon’s Cornerhouse, but Donald didn’t eat a thing, as he said he felt unwell. At 2pm, he picked-up a newspaper to read the horse-race results, but he flicked passed sports without a glance. At 3pm, at the Gaumont cinema in Piccadilly, they saw ‘Deported’ a gangster flick starring Marta Toren & Jeff Chandler, only he couldn’t sit still and excused himself twice. At 5pm, feeling ill, he returned to his hotel room for a sleep, as Margaret & David ate out. And by 7pm, even though they’d paid for one more night, Donald had packed their bags, collected the car and insisted they leave London that very evening – supposedly - to beat the non-existent Sunday morning traffic. Their one-week holiday had started on such as a high note, but now, all he wanted was to leave. They left at 10pm, they drove all night, he dropped David off in Durham, and by 9am, Donald was home. Back in Room 12 of the Saura Hotel, the Police were confronted by a confusing crime-scene. On the surface, it seemed simple; a spontaneous crime-of-passion inflicted by a punter on a prostitute prior to the act of sex, during which he snapped, and inflicted a fast and uncontrolled burst of violence, until she was dead. There was no sadism, no torture and no rape. This was anger and nothing more. But if he was angry, why didn’t he flee? Agnes was murdered between 2am and 4am, and he left by taxi at 6am, so what did he do in-between? We know he didn’t move her, abuse her or dispose of her. He didn’t wash his hands, his clothes or the room. And he didn’t destroy his bloodstains, fingerprints or any evidence, except in a feeble attempt to make it look like a robbery, which took seconds. So, for at least two hours, maybe he sat alone, in a tiny room, and stared at the girl he had murdered? The Police had no idea who the killer was; his blood group was common - type A, his fingerprints matched no-one in the Police files (or to the recent spate of prostitute killings in the area), he paid by cash, the room was a last-minute booking, and although he signed the guest book in an illegible scrawl as ‘Mr & Mrs Davison of County Durham’, as the name could have been a lie, the Met’ Police notified Durham, just in case. But what they did have was a very accurate description of the ‘Sad Faced Killer’. In the early hours of Friday 2nd June 1950, Donald was in his parent’s bakehouse unloading the loaves from the bread oven. He’d been unusually quiet since his holiday, and having blamed his injuries on a foolish attempt to climb-up to a gull’s nest in Torquay, his jittery nerves and frequent tears were put down to the traumatic shock of his fictional near-death fall. With a description of the ‘Sad Faced Killer’ circulated in the Police Gazette and the Newcastle Journal, Evelyn & Lorna joked about this similarity to their brother; Police said he was five foot seven, thin and polite, with sandy hair, a sallow complexion and he signed-in as Mr Davidson of Durham. It was funny yet ridiculous, as Donald was possibly one of the nicest and sweetest men anyone could hope to meet. And as they laughed, they went about their duties… but Donald knew that the Police were closing in. At 7:45am, Lorna left the bakehouse for two minutes, leaving Donald alone. By the time she had returned, he had gone. As a polite man, Lorna knew he would never leave without giving a reason why, or saying goodbye. As a good son and a protective brother, he would never leave his sister to fend for herself. And as a proud and professional baker, he would never shirk his duties, or leave his loaves to burn. But he had. With his black MG10 sports car gone and Donald missing for more than twenty-four hours, at noon on Saturday 3nd June 1950, Lorna contacted the Police. By 1:30pm, Detective Constable Herbert Davidson who knew Donald, had read the article in the Police Gazette and having heard that Donald had returned from London with scratches on his hand and face, DC Davidson contacted the Met’ Police. Having searched the bedroom, inside they found a photo of Donald (used to verify his identity with the three witnesses), a fingerprint (which matched those at the crime scene), a sample of his handwriting (which matched those in the guest books), a receipt for the Saura Hotel from the night of the murder, and a set of identical clothes as worn by the murderer, which were all splashed with his blood – type A, and Agnes’ – type O, as well as one of the souvenirs he had brought back from Germany, a 22 Calibre Luger was missing. Being the Police’s prime suspect, a guard was placed on his home… …but by then, it was too late. At 8:30am, local farmer Ernest Chapman had found an abandoned MG10 parked-up at Finchele Abbey, a beauty-spot near Framwellgate in County Durham. The driver was missing, the doors were unlocked, on the seat was an article about a murdered girl in Paddington, and on the dashboard – written in an illegible handwriting – was a note; it read “Dear All. I am terribly sorry for causing you so much trouble but what I am about to do is the best way out. I have always caused you anxiety and as I am about to end it all, I hope you can forgive me. I could never write a decent letter so I’ll finish. Love to all. Donald”. Constable Dunn stood guard as Detective Sargent Bell examined the car, but its owner wasn’t far away. Nearby, at Finchale Farm, in a camping site full of tents - as several families awoke to the warmth of the dawn light, the chirping chorus of birds and the reassuring whiff of bacon and eggs, as they readied themselves for a gentle dawdle by the river - off to one side, by itself, was an old tatty caravan; a little dirty and neglected, with the lights off, the door shut and a window broken, but it wasn’t empty. Inside was sat Donald. Just like his surroundings, he was dirty and dishevelled. For two days he hadn’t slept, ate or spoke, as every breath descended into tears and every word was punctuated by regret. He knew he didn’t deserve to live and – with what he had done - he could never live with himself. And as his red raw eyes stared dead-ahead, being unwilling to blink as each time his lids shut all he saw was the terrified face of a helpless girl; all bloodied, beaten and gasping for breath, as the pain in his fractured fist reminded him of the first life he had taken… that same fist would also welcome his last. With the broken window blocked by an old rag, as lethal levels of toxic gas spewed from the open taps of a thirteen kilo cannister, being slumped on the sofa-bed and seeing no way out, as he breathed the highly flammable vapours deep into his lungs, in his fist, Donald lit his lighter. (BOOM) At 8:25am, an explosion ripped through Finchale Farm, as the little caravan erupted in a fireball of tangled metal, buckled frames and flying glass shards, as beyond its flaming curtains, smoke billowed. Out of its twisted door, with the ragged threads of his clothes on fire, his searing skin scorched and his sandy hair a black charred mass, as Donald staggered towards the woods and the petrified people panicked screaming “get the doctor”, “call an ambulance”, any help would be too late. Sinking to his knees, as each tear evaporated the second these salty drops touched his burning cheeks, out of his singed Larynx he was heard to utter just one word – “Sorry”, and as he clutched his Luger pistol in the sizzling fist which had ended Agnes’ life… (BANG)… he would end his own. (End) Being on holiday with his family, a doctor arrived on the scene just moments later, but with Donald breathing in short decreasing rasps, his pulse low, his body still smoking and a bullet hole through both of his temples, Donald was rushed to Newcastle Hospital, but on arrival, he was declared dead. A trial was held at Westminster Coroner’s Court on the 13th June 1950, just two weeks after the murder of Agnes Walsh and the suicide of Donald Davidson. With Donald dead, and the evidence in both cases being irrefutable, there was no reason to go through a criminal trial. The jury retired for just fifteen minutes, and returned with a unanimous verdict - Donald was guilty of murder and suicide whilst the balance of his mind was disturbed. Had he been alive, he would have been sentenced to death, but being sickened by his own crime and being his own judge, jury and executioner, Donald had dispensed on himself his own form of justice. No-one knows why he murdered Agnes Walsh, except for Agnes and himself, and they are both dead. He was an unlikely man committing an unlikely murder on a woman he barely knew, and although there is no denying that Donald Davidson was the ‘Sad Faced Killer’, we know what he did, when he did it and where, but (even without a redacted file) the one detail we can never explain is why? OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile. Don’t forget, after a short gap but (well given that I’m not a bored comedian or actor with celebrity friends and zero reason to host a podcast) probably no advert, sigh, soon I shall be filling a kettle with water (ooh), adding milk (ahh), stirring in sugar (eeeh) and generally doing lots of waffling (yaaay), which will come in your ears (ooh err) shortly. Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Lise Rosenlund, Katherine Cary, Andrew Lewis and Mary Diehl, I thank you, with a special thank you to Aimee Graham for the kind donation. I thank you. And everyone who’s recently left kind reviews on iTunes or your podcast app. It’s very much appreciated. Murder Mile was researched, written & performed by myself, with the main musical themes written and performed by Erik Stein & Jon Boux of Cult With No Name. Thank you for listening and sleep well. Michael J Buchanan-Dunne is a writer, crime historian, podcaster and tour-guide who runs Murder Mile Walks, a guided tour of Soho’s most notorious murder cases, hailed as “one of the top ten curious, quirky, unusual and different things to do in London”, nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards 2018", one of The Telegraph's top five true-crime podcasts and featuring 12 murderers, including 3 serial killers, across 15 locations, totaling 50 deaths, over just a one mile walk
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AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster & tour guide of Murder Mile Walks, hailed as one of the best "quirky curious & unusual things to do in London". 
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