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On the evening of Sunday 15th June 1952, just inside the front-door of the Shelbourne Hotel at 1 Lexham Gardens, a 44-year-old lady known as 'Christine Granville' was murdered. She looked like a nobody, and yet, living under an assumed name, she was actually a hero, a soldier, a secret-agent and one of the most amazing women who has ever lived. Her exploits were the stuff of legend, but being cast aside by a government who no longer needed her skills, her cruel death marked a sad demise for “Churchill’s favourite spy”.
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 former Shelbourne Hotel is where the mustard coloured triangle is. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, such as West London, King's Cross, Paddington, etc, access them by clicking here.
Here's two little videos; one of myself showing you the location at 1 Lexhamn Gardens and another (shot a long while ago) showing you the former heaadquarters of the Special Opertion Executive (SOE) who 'Christine Granville' worked for, based at 64 Baker Street. These videos are a link to youtube, so it won't eat up your data.
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.
Left to right: the doorway and the front of 1 Lexham Gardens as it looks today, a rare photo of Dennis Muldowney and a (copyright-free) photo of Krystyna Skarbek.
Crime scene photos taken by the Police from inside the hallway of The Shelbourne Hotel at 1 Lexham Gardens. Krystyna lies as she was found, by her side is the knife which was used by Dennis to kill her (it was removed by the hotel manager).
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 was researched using the original declassified police investigation files from the National Archives,including:
SOUNDS: (not created by me)
Skiing - https://freesound.org/people/13FPanska_Marval_Lukas/sounds/379331/
Howling Wind - https://freesound.org/people/Bosk1/sounds/217186/
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE:
Ep97: 'Christine Granville' - The Fall of a Forgotten Hero.
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 is about Christine Granville; a hero, soldier, secret-agent and one of the most amazing women who has ever lived. Her exploits were the stuff of legend, but being cast aside by a government who no longer needed her skills, her cruel death marked a sad demise for “Churchill’s favourite spy”.
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 97: “Christine Granville”: The Fall of a Forgotten Hero.
Today I’m standing in Lexham Gardens, in Kensington, W8; four streets north of the home of Elizabeth McLindon’s deluded killer, three streets south of the former school of Katerina Koneva, three streets west of the basement where serial-killer John George Haigh dissolved the entire McSwan family and a quarter of a mile south of the first sadistic murder by Neville Heath – coming soon to Murder Mile.
Situated a mile from three of London’s best museums - but no-where near anything of interest except for a huge Sainsbury’s and half a billion hotels - this part of Kensington is posh but pointless. You know it’s posh, as nothing has prices and nobody smiles. You know it’s pointless, as although each flat is sold for a minimum of £1.5 million quid a pop, most of the owners only have enough money left for a faulty facelift, a scarf cut from road-kill, teeth made from Steinway keys, a teeny-tiny legless dog who lives in a bag and a personalised licence-plate which is meant to read ‘Anu 5’, but instead it looks like ‘Anus’.
The only view here is the noisy A4 trunk road which rips through its heart. So, as the pseudo posh people sup a thimble’s worth of Balinese demi-capu coffee and nibble on a tiny custard tart from a box it takes longer to wrap than the cake takes to bake, as they eat alfresco by the side, each morsel is munched by a shot of grit as a sewage truck thunders-by and a whiff of part-digested burgers as a builder takes a dump by the bins and wipes his arse on a discarded copy of Horse & Hound.
Just off the A4, at 1 Lexham Gardens, stands The Lexham Gardens Hotel; an unassuming five-storey townhouse built with white and yellow bricks, a stucco facade, Doric columns and wrought-iron gates. Formerly known as The Shelbourne, this was once a shabby place-to-stay for those who were down-on-their-luck. One of whom was a fearless woman and we all owe her our lives and our freedom.
She was known as ‘Christine Granville’; but there are no statues, street names or public holidays in her honour, as – with her bravery, cunning and resilience no longer needed to defeat the Nazis – one of the greatest ever agents became a nobody, whose name is as neglected today as the day she died.
Only Churchill’s favourite spy didn’t die the glorious heroic death that her life had been, instead - being abandoned, broke and unloved – her sad and tragic end was so mundane, it’s an insult to her memory.
As it was here, on Sunday 15th June 1952, that ‘Christine Granville’ was murdered. Only her end wasn’t at the hands of a hired assassin, rogue state or bitter rival, but by a nobody with a grudge. (Interstitial)
Until 1941, ‘Christine Granville’ did not exist. Her name was an alias, and although she was also known as Krystina Giżycki, Krystyna Gettlich, Pauline Armand and Olga Polovsky, her real name was Krystyna Skarbek. Her life was thrilling, dangerous and heroic... but it all could have been so very different.
Maria Krystyna Janina Skarbek was born on 1st May 1908 near Warsaw, Poland; the youngest of two children to Count Jerzy Skarbek, a Catholic aristocrat, and Countess Stefania Goldfeder, heiress to a Jewish banking empire. Raised in wealth and privilege, Krystyna’s childhood was easy and carefree, as every whim was catered for by tutors, servants and stableman… but she was never a lady of leisure.
As a perfect mix of both parents, Krystyna was a stunning girl blessed with her mother’s boundless compassion and radiant beauty, she was a tomboy with her father’s love of sports and adventure, all of which was combined with a Catholic guilt, a Jewish sense of injustice and a devout patriotism.
Being a girl - although a fast learner who was fluent in Polish, French and Yiddish, who could pass as an Italian, a Russian or a Spaniard - she was only gifted a basic education. Being a tall elegant brunette who came sixth in the Miss Poland contest and whose captivating looks made many men tremble, her only career was to be as a wife and mother. And so, as a wealthy heiress who kept herself occupied by horse riding, hunting and skiing, she was bright, brave and beautiful, but also rebellious and bored.
Following the Great Depression; in 1930 Krystyna’s father died, they were forced to sell their country estate and the Goldfeder empire collapsed, leaving Countess Stefania an impoverished widow. To pay her way, Krystyna moved out and worked a regular job at a car dealership, but seeing shadows on her lungs, coughing-up blood and diagnosed with tuberculosis (the same disease which killed her father), she was advised to find herself an outdoor occupation, which severely limited her options. That same year, having briefly married a dull businessman called Gustaw Gettlich which didn’t last the year, by 1932 she was ill, she was broke and – as a shameful divorcee – she was a lady without love.
Krystyna could have been just another little rich-girl who fell on hard times. But blessed with guts, grit and determination, her privileged upbringing had been the perfect training for her new life as a spy.
It all began (quite literally) by accident… as although she was an expert skier who easily-traversed even the deadliest of black-runs on the mountain retreat of Zakopane, having momentarily lost her footing, Krystyna’s life was saved by the giant physique and the huge personality of Jerzy Giżycki. Just like her, he was wealthy, loving and bored; being restless, he was a diplomat and an author; and burdened by a thirst for travel, a radical brain and a taste for danger, Jerzy was the perfect cure.
On 2nd November 1938, they married in Warsaw, travelled to Africa and with Jerzy promoted to the post of Poland's Consul General, they moved to Ethiopia. Every day was a new adventure…
…but the real excitement was yet to come.
On 1st September 1939 Germany invaded Poland from the West, on the 17th the Soviets invaded from the East, and within four weeks, their entire country was smashed and World War Two had begun.
Days later, Krystyna & Jerzy sailed to London and volunteered their services as allied spies to the British Secret Intelligence Service. As a well-travelled diplomat with a colourful past, Jerzy was accepted; but as a woman, a foreigner and a Jew, Krystyna was treated with derision and suspicion.
In their hands, they had the perfect spy; she was brilliant, beautiful, cunning and bold; she was an expert skier, horse-rider and marksman; she had several aliases, spoke many languages, she blended-in with the privileged and the poor; she could pass for French, Italian, Spanish and Russian; and – best of all – she would die for her country. And yet, they almost let her slip-by…
…but being described by a high-ranking official as a "flaming Polish patriot, an adventuress and absolutely bloody fearless", Krystyna was given a chance…
…but they would greatly under estimate her.
Her first mission was one she devised herself. On 23rd December 1939, with Hungary having allied with the Nazis, Krystyna snuck into Budapest, printed thousands of propaganda leaflets and - aided by old family friend Andrzej Kowerski and a Polish Olympic skier – she navigated cliff-faces, avalanches and deadly precipices in the sub-zero temperatures of the Tatra Mountains, and - as a half-Jewish spy - she re-entered Nazi-occupied Poland, completed her mission, and then remained there to sabotage the German intelligence, free any political prisoners and assist the resistance fighters to escape.
All of which, if captured, she would be shot as a spy and exterminated as a Jew. But so successful were Krystyna and Andrzej’s secret missions, that a bounty was offered for their capture, arrest or death.
Following the failure of Dunkirk, with the allies on the backfoot and the enemy poised to attack just miles from the English coast, Churchill no-longer saw this as a gentlemanly war, to be played by some old-school Generals according to the rules of engagement - it was now time to be dirty and devious.
In July 1940, under a top-secret directive, the ‘Special Operations Executive’ was established with their headquarters at 64 Baker Street. Their mission was to confuse, sabotage and disrupt the enemy in a covert and deceitful way. Churchill didn’t want a soldier, as every SOE operative needed to be a master of escape, disguise and explosives, who was invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear, and yet deadly enough to kill an unarmed assassin with a knife, a rope, a makeshift shiv and even their bare hands.
What he needed was a self-taught super-spy, what he got was Krystyna Skarbek, and she would quickly become SOE’s the first British female agent, their longest-serving spy and one of the most respected.
Having adopted the alias of ‘Christine Granville’ to aid her return to English soil, Krystyna spied on enemy troop movements, transports and oil-fields; she assisted the French and Italian Resistance, she organised a smuggling network between Warsaw to Budapest, she sabotaged communications and bridges right up the River Danube, and – even though both countries had signed a nonaggression pact – she filmed the first evidence of German troops poised to invade their allies – the Soviet Union.
On 22nd July 1941, as Hitler unleashed Operation Barbarossa, Churchill hailed Krystyna as his favourite spy. But she wasn’t just brave and ruthless, she was also cunning and inventive.
In January 1941, whilst being interrogated by the Gestapo and fearing that that her true identity would be uncovered, by biting-down hard on her tongue and coughing-up blood, she feigned tuberculosis (a disease for which there was no cure), and worried that they might contract it, she was quickly released.
Once stopped by German soldiers on the Italian border, when they ordered her hands up, under each arm she unveiled a live grenade and threatened to blow them all sky-high if they didn’t disappear.
And in July 1944, having parachuted into southern France, she secured the release of two SOE agents and resistance fighters - who were held in a Nazi prison and were just hours from their execution - by lying, threatening and bribing the Gestapo commander with two million francs… that she didn’t have.
Krystyna Skarbek, alias ‘Christine Granville’ had survived illness, poverty, accidents, interrogation, war and execution, there had been a ransom for her arrest, a death sentence on her head, and yet, having changed the outcome of the war - across both allies and enemies - she was feared and respected.
But by May 1945, with the world was no longer at war, her new battle was about to begin.
Many soldiers had died, but for those who had survived, their homecoming was bitter-sweet. Gone was the thrill, the camaraderie, the four-square meals and a steady wage, as having returned to the blackened smoking shell of a country they had fought for – with their homes bombed, their loved-ones missing and their lives shattered – in a simple ceremony their heroic deeds were honoured with a cheaply-made mass-produced medal, and (just as quickly) these brave soldiers were forgotten.
One such soldier was Krystyna Skarbek.
On 14th May 1945, just two weeks after Adolf Hitler’s death, Krystyna’s service as an SOE agent was terminated; communications ceased, she was trapped in Cairo, dismissed with one month’s salary and left to fend for herself. After six years of service and six years apart, Krystyna and her husband Jerzy had split, and - as the Allies had syphoned-off her Polish homeland from the tyrannical claws of the fascists to be ruled under an equally brutal Communist dictatorship - she no longer had a country, a home or a family, as both her mother and her brother had been exterminated in the Nazi death camps.
To add insult to injury, in May 1947, her heroism was rewarded with Europe’s highest honours, as she was made an OBE, an MBE and awarded the George Medal, as well as the prestigious Croix de Guerre, which recognised her contribution to the liberation of France. Only she couldn’t afford to live; as the British Government would repeatedly deny her a work-permit, a passport and even British citizenship.
Struggling to adapt to civilian life – to make-ends-meet - Krystyna Skarbek (OBE, MBE, George Medal, Croix de Guerre, the liberator of France, the saviour of England and Churchill’s favourite spy) was forced to undertake a series of badly-paid menial jobs, such as a switchboard operator, a café waitress and a sales-girl at Harrod’s. And as the months turned into years, she became depressed and isolated.
On 3rd May 1951, after years in the civilian wilderness, Krystyna found work as a stewardess onboard the maiden voyage of the ‘MS Ruahine’, a luxury passenger-liner for the New Zealand Shipping Company, which sailed from the Port of London to Wellington and Auckland. Her duties were fruitless; she served drinks, she made beds and she took orders, but as the Captain had insisted all of his crew wear their wartime decorations – as many had only received a standard campaign medal – Krystyna’s chest full of citations created an uneasy sense of jealousy and resentment amongst her ship-mates.
Just three weeks in, Krystyna wrote a letter to her childhood friend, SOE collaborator and occasional lover (Andrzej Kowerski). The letter was brief, her mood was sullen, and in it she wrote that “the other stewards are not very friendly… all except one”. She never mentioned his name, or gave any details, but this 41-year-old bathroom attendant was captivated by her beauty, enraptured by her heroic tales and his boundless attention and undying friendship made this lonely lady feel loved again.
Krystyna Skarbek was a living legend, where-as Dennis Muldowney was a nobody.
The early life of Dennis George Muldowney is impossible to verify as being a pitiful loser and a deluded fantasist, many aspects of his fictional upbringing were fiercely disputed by his all three of his siblings.
Born on 16th July 1910 in Wigan (Lancashire), by the time of his trial, Dennis had concocted a fanciful tale to inflate his humdrum existence and excuse his appalling crime. His claims were that he had been beaten black-and-blue by his drunken father, abandoned by his abusive mother which left him with a fear of the dark, that both parents had sexually abused him and that all four siblings were bastards born out of incest. But none of this ever happened, in fact, his simple life was actually rather dull.
Easily distracted as a boy, Dennis left school with no skills, friends or qualifications. He was boastful, lazy and prone to daydreaming. He liked reading, but mostly just comic books about spies. And having claimed he had been introduced to masturbation at the age of six, he was obsessed with sex.
Unable to concentrate, between 1923 and 1952 he flitted from job-to-job working briefly as an errand-boy, a counterhand, a builder, a hairdresser, a butler, a fire warden, a waiter, a dispatch rider, a ship’s steward and a hall porter, with his work record never attaining a level higher than ‘satisfactory’, as he was often absent having suffered from frequent bouts of depression at his own failure.
He married a local girl called Kath in 1929, they had a boy called John in 1940 and she divorced him in 1947 on the grounds of cruelty, owing to his fantasies, his masturbatory habits and his nightly demand for sexual intercourse - and he hadn’t seen either of them since. He didn’t drink, do drugs, he had no criminal record and – according to his siblings – there was no history of insanity in the family.
So, it’s no surprise that, as an unattractive depressed failure, who was recently single, heavily in debt and had lived such a dull life that – unlike his shipmates who had all served in the war – he didn’t have a single medal to wear. But as both he and Krystyna ascended the ‘MS Ruahine’ in Glasgow Dock; he fell for her beauty, her pitied her loneliness and he marvelled at the thrilling life she had led.
Happy to have a new friend, on the back of a breakfast menu Krystyna scribbled her phone number – WES 2691 – with the plan that once they’d docked back in London, they could remain as friends…
…only, through Dennis’ fanciful eyes, he saw them both as lovers.
Following his arrest, he told the Police about her many male admirers, of her endless sexual conquests and how he had tried to end their passionate affair. But lured in by all the cunning of this raven-haired beauty, as she cooed “you are the only man on this ship for me, all the rest are blank faces”, with that he became her “slave of love”, and having fallen under her spell, he later claimed “she murdered me”.
In truth, Krystyna was stuck on a cruise-ship for the next two-and-a-half-month with a deluded loser, but as a woman who had duped the Gestapo and evaded the Nazis, she knew how to keep the peace.
By July 1951, having docked in London, as promised Krystyna kept it cordial and introduced Dennis to her friends at the White Eagle Club, but being obsessed by Krystyna, he didn’t talk to anyone but her.
By February 1952, being convinced that she “loves me” and “can’t live without me”, as he boarded his next ship – the MS Dunottar Castle which was bound for the Caribbean - whilst in the company of “some other man”, she supposedly kissed him goodbye and promised to write, but she never did.
By April 1952, upon his return, as his unrequited love had been left to fester for two long months, and with no letters, no calls, no contact and as she had moved to a new hotel, seeing his goddess in the arms of “another lover”, as she “slammed the door in my face”, he swore he would kill her and himself.
That night, he purchased a knife, a cosh and a vile of poison. He resigned as a ship’s toilet attendant, he got a job as a porter at the Reform Club so he could keep surveillance on her usual haunts – and even though she had left on a six-week voyage to Durban – his anger would fester for a very long time.
On Friday 13th June 1952, six weeks later, a cruise-liner called the Winchester Castle docked in the Port of London. Down the walkway disembarked the tall dark-haired stewardess, as 44-year-old Krystyna Skarbek returned to the land she had fought for. Being older and wearier; her sprightly footsteps now shuffled, her lightning-fast reactions had slowed and her highly-tuned senses had dulled, as this once-great secret-agent was fatigue by a menial, lonely and demeaning existence. But the future for this forgotten hero looked truly hopeless, as –six years on – an ungrateful British Government still failed to issue her with the basics she deserved – like a passport, a work permit and her British citizenship.
Being tired, broke and lonely, she dragged her trunk of memories and medals to The Shelbourne Hotel at 1 Lexham Gardens, a cheap but clean place-to-stay she had occupied several times before, and – having been rejected for every military and diplomatic post she had applied for – this lady ‘who had changed the course of the Second World War’ began a new job as the hotel’s housekeeper.
On Sunday 15th June 1952, (Dennis’ voice) “This is what happened. At about 8pm, on Haymarket, I met a man I knew from one of my trips. He told me he had been on the Winchester Castle which had docked last Friday. Onboard was a polish stewardess who he had disliked very much, who had spoken to him about me, that she was cavorting with the ship’s stewards, and that made me mad. I decided to see her. I went back to my room. I collected my knife and cosh. I couldn’t make up my mind whether I was going to knife her, beat her, or just frighten her. I went to Lexham Gardens, and waited”.
It had been another long day for Krystyna having scrubbed and swept the hotel from top-to-bottom and all for minimum wage. She had cleaned it all; from the guest rooms, to her bedroom to the dining room, all the way down the carpeted stairs to the white tiled hall by the ground-floor door, where – just a few moments later – her dead body would lay. Being a late night with an early start tomorrow, and having popped out for dinner and a few glasses of wine, she was tired-out and ready for bed.
At 10:30pm, Krystyna ascended the stone steps up to the Shelbourne Hotel and entered the white door of the very thin hall. With her hearing weakened by the persistent bangs of the Nazi gunshots she had dodged and the boom of the enemy bridges she had blown to smithereens, she didn’t hear her assailant behind her – as having skulked among shadows for an hour-and-a-half – he followed her in; with a cosh in his waistband, a six-inch sheath knife in his jacket and a vile of poison in his pocket.
Halfway up the carpeted stairs, hearing the door lock click, Krystyna turned to see Dennis Muldowney; the slim, dark-haired, sharp-nosed, 42-year-old former bathroom attendant, who was prone to lying, day-dreaming and masturbating. He had been pleasant company for a while, but had bloomed into a right-royal pain-in-the-backside, who had plagued her with love-letters, calls, gifts, and – after more than a year – had refused to get the message that they were not lovers, they were only friends.
Trained to negotiate with Nazis, Krystyna didn’t argue, as being too smart and too tired, in a muted voice she calmly led Dennis back down to the hall, as she didn’t see him as a threat, he was just a pest.
(Dennis’ voice) “I asked if she would give me my letters back, she said she had burned them. I did not believe her. I asked her how she felt about me and whether she was prepared to give me a reason for her appalling conduct. She told me that she didn’t want anything to do with me”. Dennis was angry, hurt and spurned, but – at no point during the incident – was there was shouting, shoving or a scuffle.
As Krystyna calmly walked this pathetic little man across towards the door, having rejected many male advances before, she made it clear she was going away and that they would never see each other ever again. For Krystyna, this was the end of their friendship, but for Dennis, this was the end of their lives.
(Dennis’ voice) “She was my Queen, my love, I was her love slave. She has dared me to kill her on three sperate occasions. She was the one who first put the idea into my head. That is what she wanted”.
Being a tired broken shell of her former-self, whose brain was clouded by fatigue and whose senses were dulled by depression, she never saw the assassin’s weapon, she only felt a fast thud as his fist hit her chest, but looking down at her left breast, she saw a knife’s handle protruding, as the full six-inch blade had penetrated her breast-bone, severed the artery to the lungs and split her heart in half.
Having collapsed at the bottom of the stairs, as her legs buckled under her, Krystyna slumped hard against the writing desk in a crumpled heap. With her eyes wide open, her mouth aghast and no blood spurting from the blade - as her body cavity quickly filled - in an instant, she was dead. (Interstitial)
Dennis Muldowney was a liar, a fantasist and a failure. Desperate for attention, upon his arrest, in the hotel he swallowed the vile of poison, but as it was only granulated Aspirin, all the tacky white powder did was stick to his dentures. In prison, he fashioned his bedsheet into a noose, but it was only ever for show. In the press, he bitched about how she was getting more attention than he was. And on 9th September 1952, at the Old Bailey, standing with his hands in his pockets, he asked the judge to “hurry it up”, as during the three-minute trial, Dennis pleaded “guilty” and was hanged three weeks later.
Krystyna Skarbek, alias ‘Christine Granville’ was the bravest, boldest and – without doubt – one of the most amazing women who has ever lived. She was brilliant, strong, courageous and resourceful; she was a self-taught secret-agent who liberated countries, thwarted Nazis, rescued resistance fighters and having risked her life - without her – we might not have the freedom and peace we enjoy today.
Except for two small memorials, organised and paid-for by those who loved her, there are no statues, streets or holidays in her name. Her exploits aren’t even taught in schools, so yet another generation won’t know who to thank. Instead, her memory is sullied by a few tawdry tabloid articles about how ‘Churchill’s favourite spy’ was slain by the single blade of a deluded stalker. Only he didn’t kill her…
…it was the British Government who did, six years earlier, having sacked her, abandoned her, fobbed her off with a few medals, a month’s salary, and routinely denied her a passport, a work permit and the British citizenship she deserved, having sacrificed everything and volunteered to protect us.
As a final insult, on her death certificate, ignoring the fact that her name and her age are wrong, in the category of ‘occupation’, there is no mention of her heroism, her rank or her bravery, as instead of being listed as a spy, an agent or a soldier - as a divorcee - she is remembered only as a ‘former wife’.
She was buried in St Mary's Cemetery in Kensal Green. In 2013, the Polish Heritage Society gave her a proper headstone emblazoned with her full honours, and today, at the foot of her grave, lies the ashes of her friend, agent and lover (Andrzej Kowerski) who - it is said - she was due to marry. Her name was Krystyna Starbek, alias ‘Christine Granville’; she was the hero we forgot, but we shall never forget.
OUTRO: Ladies and gentlemen, thank you so much for listening to Murder Mile.
After the break, I shall do what I did last week, and the week before, and the week before that, only using different words, but not the same cup of tea, as it would be mouldy by now.
Before that, a big thank you to my new Patreon supporters who are Monique Stone, Holly-Jane, Corey Beecher, Gillian Bain and Jordan Lloyd Beck, who all received a personal ‘thank you’ card from me, exclusive Murder Mile stickers and badges, and lots of very exclusive videos and crime-scene photos which won’t be shared anywhere else. Ooh. And – feeling like a very lucky boy – a big thank you to those lovely people who have sent generous donations to keep Murder Mile alive, they were Miss Battenberg, Emma King, Anne-Marie Griffin and Tragic Tracey. Yes, I did spend it all on cake. And a big thank you to Danny Rolfe whose email many moons ago, reminded me of this case. I thank you too.
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
Michael 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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