BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-SIX:
On the morning of Sunday 17th September 1972, in Room 11, 68-year-old Emmy Werner was found dead in the bed of Room 11 in the Queen’s Hotel, Bayswater. Having locked her door from the inside – gaining entry - someone had beaten, suffocated and strangled her. It was a cruel and motiveless crime on a defenseless old lady, which remains unsolved to this day. But who had killed her, and 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 is marked with a teal raindrop above Hyde Park by the words 'The Long Water'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. COURT RECORDS - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11039420 COURT RECORDS - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C11039421 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today, I’m standing on Inverness Terrace in Bayswater, W2; two streets west of the three possible murders of Vincent Keighrey, a few doors north of the stabbing of US Airman Stanley Thurman and two streets west of the sadistic sex-pest known as The Bearded Man - coming soon to Murder Mile. Inverness Terrace is a quiet little side-street between Hyde Park, Paddington and Notting Hill. Dotted with cheap little B&Bs for tourists, many guests dismiss the damp walls, sticky sheets and deluxe views of the bins outback, feeling they’ve got value-for-money if it includes a complimentary sliver of soap, two teabags, a stale biscuit and a splat of shampoo - enough to scrub three hairs or a half a nipple. And yet, freebies aside, we all flippantly take our safety in a strange room as if it is a given. In 1972, at 86-90 Inverness Terrace once stood the Queen’s Hotel; a row of five-storey townhouses knocked through to create a sixty-roomed guest-house, with accommodation for residents and staff. A regular customer was 68-year-old Emmy Werner; a harmless little dot of a lady, who suffered with dementia owing to the horrors of her past. But having found a place to stay as well as much-needed company among the youthful and friendly staff, here she felt safe… or at least, she should have been. On the morning of Sunday 17th September 1972, in Room 11, Emmy was found dead in her bed. Having locked her door from the inside – gaining entry - someone had beaten, suffocated and strangled her. It was a cruel and motiveless crime on a defenseless old lady, which remains unsolved to this day. And yet, the evidence you are about to hear has never been released. To protect the innocent, the names have been abbreviated. For Emmy’s family, I hope this helps bring some conclusion to the case. And for you – dear listener – I pray that this tawdry tale doesn’t put you off staying into a hotel forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 176: The Night Porter – Part One. It’s impossible to comprehend the tragedy that Emmy Werner had suffered and survived in her life, only to end up dead in the bed of a Bayswater hotel. But who would want to wish her harm, and why? Emmy was born on the 3rd January 1904 in Brno, the second largest city in Czechoslovakia after Prague. Raised as the first of two daughters in a middle-class Jewish family, to Helene, a housewife & Dr Emil, a lawyer, she was educated until the age of 18, and became a secretary at her father’s legal practice. Neighboured by Germany, Austria, Poland and Hungary, Czechoslovakia was forged from the ashes of the First World War. Being a predominantly German-speaking city where Jews made up only 4% of its people, the city’s boundary was redrawn to dilute the stranglehold that its German nationals held. From the armistice onwards, the Czech city of Brno was seen as a safe-haven for Jews… …as for its people, the horrors of war were now a figment of the past. For Emmy, her early life was good. Being barely a little dot, at just seven stone in weight and four foot eleven inches in height, what she lacked in size she more than gained in intelligence and confidence. With a neatness which typified her nature, a compassion which burst from her smile and a walk fuelled by an inner strength, she was a woman who could take on the world if she had to - and she would. In 1925, 21-year-old Emmy married a prosperous dentist called Albert Werner, three years later their only child – a daughter called Hedy – was born, and they lived in a flat in Brno, staffed by two servants. This was their home, their lives, their everything… …but soon, it would be taken. With Hitler coming to power in 1933, the Nazis implemented the persecution and segregation of the Jews in stages, beginning with state-sponsored racism, anti-Jewish legislation, boycotts and violence. Following the annexation of Austria and the incorporation of the Czechoslovakian border known as the Sudetenland into Germany, with the rest of country weak and defenceless, on 15th March 1939 the German Army marched into Prague, and – like many Czech cities and towns - Brno soon followed. Five months before the German invasion of Poland and Neville Chamberlain’s reluctant declaration of war, the Nazis took control of the city. With the calm of an icy wind and the ease of summer breeze, more than 100,000 troops, trucks and tanks crawled into the city streets, like a parade of peace. No shots were fired and no shouts were heard, as the citizens of Brno stood in a mix of awe and terror. Every citizen saw this ‘occupation’ through different eyes; for the German nationals they saluted with jubilation and waved their swastikas high; for the Czechs, many sobbed as with the first war still fresh in their memories, a second war was too unthinkable; and as for the city’s Jews – for some of whom this was their home and others having fled Nazi Germany – their uncertain future was to be feared. Like thousands of others - unable to leave the country without a visa - Emmy, Albert & Hedy Werner were unable to flee their home city of Brno, and there they would remain for the next three years. With laws written to persecute them for their religion, life was hard for Emmy and her family. In a city already gripped by blackouts and rationing, any non-Aryans were forced to stitch a yellow star upon their clothes, identifying them as a people to be persecuted. This was their home, and yet, they were denied the most basic of services; education, employment and medicine; access to shops, parks and public baths; they couldn’t travel, trade, pray, or even sit on selected benches on public streets. Whereas once Brno was a place for families; the children who played hopscotch in the streets now marched as part of the Hitler Youth, neighbour ratted-out neighbour simply to survive, people were sent to prison for expressing opposing views, some vanished into Gestapo HQs never to return and any dissenters were executed in the streets – with the relatives forced to cover the cost of their death. Subjected to abuse, assaults and their possessions confiscated without recourse, for many like Emmy and her family, their lives were little more than a prison, of which their sentence was indefinite. They endured three years of isolation and terror, which did untold damage to their minds… …and yet, no-one foresaw the apocalyptic horror which was yet to come. On 11th July 1941 - codenamed Operation Reinhard - Adolf Hitler implemented the systematic murder of the Jews by initially establishing three killing centres at Belzec, Sobibor and Treblinka in Poland, inflicting slaughter on an industrial scale and killing six million Jews, two-thirds of those in Europe. We know this now, but back then, amidst the chaos of war, it was just a rumour. From 1941 to 1942, 10000 men, women and children (almost the city’s entire Jewish population) were deported from Brno to Theresienstadt in the Bohemian region of Czechoslovakia. Built as a fortress, the camp had a dual purpose; as a transit point where thousands were held before being sent to labour camps and killing centres (like Dachau and Auschwitz), but also as a propaganda tool for the Nazis. On 1st April 1942, Emmy, her husband Albert and her daughter Hedy were sent to the Theresienstadt camp. Under the guise of a re-settlement centre, families boarded trains with their luggage believing they would survive the war in relative safety; with guaranteed jobs in factories, a roof over their heads and food in their bellies – living a better life than they had done in the ghettos of their own cities. Only, this belief was as much a myth as the camp itself. Arriving at Theresienstadt; their details were taken, an onward journey was noted, they ate their first hot meal in weeks, and – given a pen and paper – they were asked to write letters to their loved ones reassuring those left behind that they were safe. The letters were sent, and the cruel lie became fact. Described in Nazi propaganda as a model camp, Theresienstadt was a façade designed to hide the real horrors of Hitler’s plan. Under the hoax that this was a ‘spa town’ where families and the elderly could ‘retire’ in safety – prior to an inspection by the Red Cross in June 1944 – gardens were planted, houses painted and fake shops were built, as the prisoners danced wearing forced smiles for fear of death. Emmy lived amid the filth for three years; never knowing if she would see another day, if her daughter would starve, if her mother or sister had lived, or if her husband was alive. With the Allies advancing – seeking to destroy any evidence of the genocide - on 2nd February 1945, 47-year-old Albert Werner, Emmy’s husband of 17 years, was executed in the gas chambers at Dachau. His body was never found, his shallow grave is unknown, and all she retained of his was a single photo of the man she still loved. On the 5th May 1945 - with the camp liberated - Emmy and Hedy were free… …and although the war was over, their physical and psychological trauma had only just begun. Three days later, scenes of jubilation dotted our smouldering continent as the Allies celebrated Victory in Europe; street parties erupted, bands rang out and returning servicemen hugged their sweethearts. For many, life returned to normal, as the worst they’d ensure would be rationing for a few more years. But for the chosen few who – like Emmy - had ‘survived’ the holocaust, existence was just a memory. Physically, having endured starvation, malnutrition, tuberculosis, typhoid and/or dysentery, as well as punitive wounds from dog bites, whip-lashes, beatings and gun-shots, many survivors would continue to suffer from a wealth of medical issues for years or decades to come, right up to the day they died. Upon their liberation, thousands of survivors would die eating their first solid meal, as having been starved to the point where they were just skin and bones, their stomachs could no longer digest food. Mentally, although resilient - in an era before PTSD was understood and feelings were hidden by a stiff upper lip - those who lived through these horrors often suffered with higher levels of anxiety, paranoia and depression, a greater risk of suicide and schizophrenia, and were more likely to develop dementia in their later years owing to displaced trauma. Those who many said “we’re lucky to have survived”, often felt an unbearable sense of guilt having lived, later known as ‘survivor syndrome’. For the sake of her family, although only a little dot, through raw strength Emmy struggled on in the post-war years, but three years of occupation and three years of imprisonment had taken its toll. In June 1945, Emmy and daughter were just three of the 1033 Jews from Brno who had survived the Theresienstadt camp. Of the 10,081 Jews deported from this city, only one-tenth made it home. Only once home, still their pain did not end. Dressed in nothing but a ragged prison uniform and a serial-number permanently inked into their left forearm or breast, many returned to find nothing. No home, no work, no family, no money and no possessions, everything had been looted or smashed. Between June 1945 and September 1946, Emmy & Hedy Werner tried to live as best they could in the bombed-out remains of Brno, but life was a struggle. Taking a job at a Jewish Community Office, Emmy found her mother (Helene) and her sister (Anna) alive in London, and she moved to be near them. This should have been the end of her torture… …but the worst was yet to come. Emmy began her new life in London, a smashed smouldering city pockmarked with daily reminders of death. Being surrounded by family was a blessing, but she had little else except memories and grief. As a refugee, although educated, she could only get work as a cleaner, so her meagre earnings were supplemented by a disability allowance and a widow’s pension from the German government, as part of their reparations to the victims of the holocaust. But living for many was as terrifying as dying. Her daughter Hedy would state “In the three years since, she thought that people were following her. She tried to commit suicide by taking an overdose of pills and to cut her wrists”. Her mental decline was so swift that Hedy and Emmy’s sister Anna had here admitted to Bethlam Hospital, an infamous former Victorian asylum known as Bedlam, which was then a very progressive mental-health hospital. Admitted for three years, Emmy underwent the latest procedures. First was ECT, electroconvulsive therapy, a controversial psychiatric remedy where doctors attempted to reboot her brain by placing electrodes on her temples and inducing a current of up to 120 volts for up to six seconds a time. Administered in an era before anaesthesia, ‘unmodified ECT’ came with its own risks, such as; memory loss, paralysis, heart failure and broken bones, with some patients left disabled or in a vegetative state. Emmy would survive her treatment, but as Hedy would state “it was not a success”. Second was a lobotomy, a neurosurgical treatment (with a proven track-record curing epileptics) by severing the connections in the brain's prefrontal cortex, which often left the patient with long-lasting side effects such as vomiting, dizziness, incontinence, vision impairment, abnormal sensations and even paralysis. In Emmy’s case “it was not a success” and left her with two bore-holes in her temples. No matter what they tried, Emmy’s terror could never be erased… …as like the tattoo the Nazis had inked on her, the horror would remain forever. From 1950 to 1956, Emmy was admitted to Horton Mental Hospital in Epsom, Surrey as a voluntary inpatient. During her time, doctors described her as quiet and distant with no enthusiasm for life. At no point did she improve, as her silence was only her regression. So far, in her fifty-two-years alive, she had endured three years under Nazi occupation, three years in a concentration camp, three years at Bethlem and six years at Horton. She had been a prisoner in life and in her mind for fifteen years. In the summer of 1956, Emmy was discharged from Horton, and went to live with her elderly mother in Paddington. Medication had tempered her rages, but she was often confused, scared and rambling; she hoarded food, she became shabby and – like many - she was terrified that she was being watched. In October 1966, following her mother’s death, Emmy went to live with her daughter Hedy in Bedford. After two decades of mental illness, and now dementia, Hedy tried her best but this calm and pleasant little dot of a lady had been replaced by a frightened and paranoid woman prone to outbursts of anger. By 1967, Emmy Werner was far from the bright and confident woman that she once was. She was only sixty-three years-old by then, but life had ravaged her body and her mind. Walking with a stoop, this frail tiny lady looked at least twenty years her senior; her hearing was failing, her mind was confused, she was incontinent, her black moods came in waves and she needed help up the stairs. That year, through the Association of Jewish Refugees, Emmy was given a bed in an old people’s home. Ran by Edgar & Margaret Coldwell, the home at 11-13 Fenstanton Avenue in Finchley, North London was set in a series of two-storey semi-detached houses with white walls and black timber frames on a quiet leafy street. It was nice, but Emmy didn’t like living there, as she didn’t feel welcome or safe. Like many elderly persons, she worried about her finances, later telling a friend: “she had a sizable amount of money but her daughter and son-in-law would not allow her to have access to it”. She disliked the staff: “when I met Mr Coldwell, he was very angry. He shouted the whole time and looked pretty fearsome. Mrs Werner used to say she was frightened of him because he was always shouting”. But most of all, what she resented her lack of independence… …but London would provide some light in her gloomy life. When visiting her sister Anna in Paddington, Emmy would stay at The Queen’s Hotel at 86-90 Inverness Terrace in Bayswater. It was cheap and clean, but – best of all – the staff were pleasant and friendly. First staying in May 1972 and three times since, her family and the care-home had no issues, as they knew where she was, they had a number to call and in Emmy’s own words “the staff were very nice”. Linda, the 21-year-old receptionist would state “I met Mrs Werner, we became friendly, she told me she was not happy at the home, but at the hotel she had the freedom”. Oswald, the 45-year-old manager liked her as “she always paid on time and in cash”. And Paul, the 16-year-old day porter saw her as “a lovely old lady who just wanted some friends”. She had her quirks, but the staff liked her. The Queen’s Hotel was like a home-from-home and here she felt safe, warm and welcome. The last time Hedy saw her mum was on Saturday 9th September 1972 between 3pm and 6pm. Sat in her first-floor bedroom of the care-home in Finchley, Emmy was her usual self; she had made plans to visit her sister, to stay a few nights at The Queen’s Hotel and she wanted to go to the theatre. Hedy purchased two tickets for the matinee performance of the Ray Cooney farce ‘Move Over Mrs Markham’ at the Vaudeville Theatre for the following Saturday. With no friends of her own to go with, the second ticket went to Giovanna, a care assistant at the home, to ensure Emmy was looked after. On Thursday 14th September 1972 at roughly 10:30pm, Emmy entered the Queen’s Hotel. Dressed in a brown cardigan and skirt with a woolly mohair scarf, in her hand she carried a black bag filled with a spare set of clothes, some tissues, a box of TUC crackers and a bottle of jasmine perfume. Greeted by Angela, a different receptionist, Paul, the young day-porter telephoned Linda in her room to tell her “Mrs W’s here”, as Emmy had promised to take her to the theatre too. And although he was blighted by a cold and permanently blew his nose into some toilet tissue - keeping his distance as best he could for fear of passing it onto her - Paul assisted Emmy to the first floor and carried her bag to Room 11. It was ordinary day, and as Paul would say “she was in good health and had no complaints”. The room wasn’t much, but at just twelve-by-fifteen feet, it contained a single bed, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a phone, a radio, a tray of tea, and its own sink but it shared a bathroom and a toilet. It had a solid door which was locked with a key (one given to the guest and one held by reception), and a set of French doors leading to a small first-floor balcony which overlooked Inverness Terrace. Friday 15th September, the next day, was equally as forgettable. Emmy got up early, she had breakfast, she visited her sister, and returned about 10pm. Sat in reception, she chatted with Linda & Paul as per usual, and – as Paddy, the night porter came on shift – Paul assisted her up the stairs to her room. “Her spirits were good”, Paul would say. She hadn’t been followed, harassed and she seemed happy. So, it’s not surprising that Saturday 16th was as unremarkable as the others, with the only notable difference being that Emmy went to the theatre – aided by Giovanna, the care-assistant and Linda, the receptionist. The play was funny, Emmy liked it, they had a light bite, headed back to the Queen’s, where she chatted with Linda, Paul and Patricia, one of the chambermaids, and – this time – Linda assisted the frail old lady to her bedroom. Emmy thanked her, she entered Room 11, she locked the door behind her and left the key in the lock. As per usual, she undressed, she got into bed and (with not a care in the world) she drifted off to sleep. That was the last time that 68-year-old Emmy Werner was seen alive. (End) The night had been quiet in this bustling hotel; not an odd sound was heard, not a stranger was spotted and no suspicions were raised by the staff that any of the residents were in danger, or had died. At roughly 1pm, Cathy the chambermaid went to change the bedsheets of Room 11, but found the door locked from within. With no ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the door and unable to use the pass-key, she climbed onto the balcony of Room 12 and entered via the French windows, left slightly ajar. The small room was only as messy as most customers leave it; with her clothes on the floor, her black bag and handbag by the bed, and a half-eaten cracker and a cup of tea gone cold left on the dresser. Cathy crept in, quietly cooing “Mrs W?” for fear of startling her, but she didn’t wake. Knowing she was hard of hearing, Cathy shook her “Mrs W?”, only she didn’t move. Emmy lay in bed, all silent and still, covered by a bedsheet which neither rose nor sank. Cathy thought the frail lady was only sleeping, but with her face contorted in fear, it was clear she’d been murdered. Throughout her life, this brave woman had endured more pain, loss and trauma than most would dare to imagine. And yet, in her last moments alive, someone had subjected this little lady to a torturous death. She had survived so much, only for her life to end here, in a cheap bed in a Bayswater hotel. Part two of three of The Night Porter continues next week. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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While I am away researching further episodes of Murder Mile, here's something to keep you entertained. Last time in New Blue, I interviewed Paul (alias Police Constable Arsenal Guiness) about the day-to-day duties of a serving Met Police Constable.
This time, I had a friendly chat with Sally & John of True Crime Investigators UK, two retired police detectives about life as a detective. In part one, we discuss a detective's day-to-day duties. In part two, we discuss police interviews. And in part three, we discuss the basics of crime scenes. Listen to True Crime Investigators UK here
Thank you for listening and supporting the show
Mx
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
Lover's Walk in Hyde Park where the "suicide pact" took place
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 ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR:
On the night of Tuesday 23rd October 1928, just shy of Halloween, a constable’s torch-light spotted two bodies splayed on the grass in Hyde Park. They were 21-year-old Julia Mangan, a housemaid and 27-year-old Robert Williams, a carpenter. Drenched in blood with their throats slit, he believed their deaths were a suicide. And although proven to be untrue, the killer’s motive would come not from love or hate… but from the twisted imagination of the master of horror.
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
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 is marked with a mustard raindrop at the right of the Hyde Park by the word 'Serpentine'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. Wednesday 9th February - MEPO 3/1642 - Murder of Julia Mangan by Robert Williams at Hyde Park on 23 October, 1928, man claims he killed her during an epileptic fit - – https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257684
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. This is Grosvenor Gate in Hyde Park, W2; a short walk south of the strangulation of homeless man Mark Morrison, a few streets west of the terrorist attack on the flight-crew of El-Al 016, the last night of fun by the Bloody Butler, and a very public beheading in Park Lane - coming soon to Murder Mile. Situated between Knightsbridge, Bayswater and Mayfair, Hyde Park is one of several royal parks open to the public, but also for filming movies. (“Quiet on set”) Many scenes have been shot here (“and action”) for films like cold-war thriller The Ipcress Files, zombie-flick 28 Weeks Later, the first film about Glyndwr Michael in The Man Who Never Was and my favourite Alfred Hitchcock’s Frenzy. Movies cost millions, but a shot can be easily ruined by an extra “or background artiste, thank you” who mimes talking like a fish drowning, walks like their proctologist forgot to cut his nails, and ends each scene with the hilarious quip “that’s a wrap, I’ll be in my trailer”, by which they mean toilet. Hyde Park is a very atmospheric location, with many sights which may leave an indelible memory on a tortured soul, and yet some of the greatest horrors to have happened here weren’t fiction but fact. On the eastern edge, south of Marble Arch, sits the Alford Street Gate (also known as Fountain Gate). On the night of Tuesday 23rd October 1928, just shy of Halloween, a constable’s torch-light spotted two bodies splayed on the grass. Drenched in blood, their throats slit, he believed their deaths were a suicide. And although proven to be untrue, the killer’s motive would come not from love or hate… …but from the twisted imagination of the master of horror. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 175 - London After Midnight. (Projector spooling). One hundred years on, it’s hard for modern audiences to appreciate the power of the silent horror films of the 1920s. Still in its infancy, cinema was a revelation, but as most films and its directors spawned from the theatres, many resulting films were stale and flat. (Horror music) Ignited by the the greats of German expressionism - Robert Weine, Karl Martin and F W Murnau - the early 1920s saw an explosion of groundbreaking horror masterpieces which still chill the blood even today. Classics like; The Cabinet of Dr Caligari, From Morn to Midnight, The Golem, and Nosferatu. With no sound, except for maybe an organ, it was the director’s vision and the actor’s performance which took the audience from a passive spectator to a willing victim whose life was in their hands. Released during pre-code cinema, in an era before scissor-wielding censors sliced up celluloid of any scene which was deemed unacceptable to the moral prudes, 1920’s horrors were shocking and raw. But with many British and American attempts utilising the work of Edgar Allen Poe, most failed. All bar a few like; The Lodger, Phantom of the Opera, The Cat and the Canary, much later Dracula and Frankenstein, and in 1927 came London After Midnight, starring the master of Horror, Lon Chaney. In the trial at The Old Bailey, for the murder of 21-year-old housemaid Julia Mangan, the terrifying gut-wrenching performance of Lon Chaney became a key point of evidence. Only the horror maestro was never arrested or called to testify for his part in her brutal murder, as his alibi was sound… …unlike the mind of her killer. Every horror movie requires a victim to be sacrificed, and ours was Julia Mangan. Born in 1907, Julia was raised in the windswept wildes of Glengarriff, a small isolated village in the Beara Peninsula of County Cork on the far south-west coast of Ireland. Translated as ‘rough glen’, it was as remote as any settlement, as amidst a dense dark forest, small farms pockmarked the land, as ahead lay the violent swells of the Atlantic ocean, a forboding sea of shipwrecks and drowned souls. As a small girl, with pale skin like an amaemic ghost and flame-red hair like the fires of hell, this was not a place of fear or terror, as this dramatic setting was her home which always made her smile. With America ahead and England behind, coming from a large Irish family whose parents had always strived to keep their brood clothed and fed - as an eternally cheerful and conscientious girl who put others before herself - she was keen to what was right and to take the burdon from their shoulders. As her older brother Patrick had done not long before - keen to find her feet, to experience life and to earn an honest crust sending monies back to aide her parents - Julia Mangan moved to London. Arriving in August 1927 with a battered suitcase of clothes and a headful of dreams, 21-year-old Julia quickly found work as a domestic servant at 35 Stanhope Gardens; a five storey Georgian terrace in the fashionable Knightsbridge, two roads south of Hyde Park and a world away from her home. Living in a small basement bedroom which she shared with the housemaid Mary Lea, although the hours were long and the pay was modest, she was well-liked as she was always pleasant and positive. Everyday was an education for this country girl in the big city. Back home; warmth was by peat-fires, light was by candle and entertainment was by father’s mournful songs, but London was different. In the tall elegant home in which she worked and lived; lights were electric, heat came by pipes and the radio played the popular hits, as the BBC broadcast news from across the world in an instant. And at night she had to close the curtains, as a yellow glow bathed the sky as the city streets never slept. In her spare-time, Julia explored this chaotic metropolis of lights and sounds, her mouth agape and her eyes wide to the new world of wonder; fast cars, instant foods, high fashion and the latest films. Surrounding the eternal sprawl of Piccadilly Circus were a wealth of picture houses. As palaces to the modern moving picture, Julia often sat in awe, as her pale skin was bathed in an endless projection of news, cartoons and movies depicting worlds she could not imagine and lives so far from her own. As a hopeless romantic, she often sat with heavy heart watching a tragic tale of love and loss unfold; recent hits were Flesh and the Devil with Greta Garbo & John GIlbert, Sunrise and 7th Heaven both with Janet Gaynor, and - although a horror which wasn’t her thing - the 1923 hit The Hunchback of Notre Dame, starring horror maesto Lon Chaney as the mangled beast of the bell tower, Quasimodo, and Patsy Ruth Miller as Esmeralda, a woman who sees beyond his deformity to find love true. For Julia, the summer of 1927 was an exciting time to be alive. Two weeks later, as if by fate, she would find love… …but three weeks after that, she would be dead. It may be hard for modern audiences to accept, but there was no actor quite like Lon Chaney. In the silent era, when films were soundless and the score was often played by an old dear on a tuneless organ interpreting the film’s action into emotion having never seen it before, as a human chameleon able to contort every inch of his body into a beast before your eyes, Chaney was a god and a monster. So lauded was Chaney that a popular saying was “don’t step on that bug, it might be Lon Chaney”. Nicknamed ‘The Man of a Thousand Faces’, not only was Lon Chaney a gifted actor who endured pain to create truly jaw-dropping characters - as in the 1920 film The Penalty, when he strapped his lower legs behind his thighs to portray a double leg umputee - but he also created his own make-up. Portraying Erik in the 1925 horror classic, The Phantom of the Opera, his hollow skull like appearance was so shocking, that audiences fainted, fled and even some more sensitive patrons were supposedly committed to asylums. His face is an image so grotesque, it still has the power to shock even today. As a master of horror, the 1920s saw Lon Chaney at the height of his powers… …by 1927, his latest masterclass in terror was released, and it was called London After Midnight. Every horror movie requires a villain to be feared, and ours was Robert Williams and his life was as tragic as any monster Lon Chaney could imagine. Born on the 28th December 1899 in Tanybraich in Caernarvonshire, North Wales, Robert Williams was came into being as Robert Owen Jones, the illegitimate son of Lizzie Jones, a struggling single mother. Stemming from a family where insanity was a cruel curse from God, unable to cope and having fled to Canada, aged just three months old, Robert was put up for adoption. Raised as their own by Mr & Mrs Williams of Lon Las in Garn Dolbenman, north west of Porthmadog, his early life was good, being blessed with two loving parents and - like himself - an adopted brother from an adandoned life. As an average lad of normal features - 5 foot 7, pale skin, dark brown hair and blue eyes - he was as liked as any other boy. Educated at Garn Council School, he left aged 14 and entered the trades. Aged 14 to 19 as a farm labourer, 19 to 21 as an apprentice joiner at Brynkir Arms on the Welsh Highland & Festiniog Railway, and he continued as a carpenter for the rest of his life… cut-short by the incident. Described as good, quiet if a little distracted, a hideous spector always haunted his soul, as although abandoned at birth, a little piece of his mother would remain within him. Physically, he was rarely ill, with just two bouts of fever and no pox, trauma or seizures. But mentally, sickness was in his blood. Cursed by moments when this boy seemed “peculiar”, this was not unusual as insanity ran rampant in Jones’ family; declared incapable, two cousins were committed for life to the North Wales Asylum, one had been “an imbecile since childhood”, and two had taken their own lives aged just 18 and 14. Aged 14, Robert had tried to end his pain by throwing himself against the hind legs of a horse, as its kick could crush his skull and break his neck, but miraculously he survived. Dr Hume had diagnosed Robert with neurasthenia - an ill-defined condition resulting in fatigue, headaches, paranoia and mood swings - and although it was mental abnormality, he could not be certified as insane. On 24th March 1927, at Caernarvon Quarter Sessions, Robert Williams was acquitted of the indecent assault on a young woman, and - unable to deal with his shame in his hometown - he fled to London. As a 27-year-old joiner, Robert lodged at 50 Robert Street in Camden with a fellow Welsh bricklayer called Owen Williams, he worked on various building sites across the West End, he visited pubs with his new pals, and - just like Julia who he hadn’t met - he entertained himself with trips to the cinema. Robert liked horror; that queezy feeling of trepidation as your palms sweat, your heart pumps and the pit of your stomach lurches and churns, as a phantom of unbridled terror stalks your senses. Released under the title The Hypnotist - directed by Tod Browning who later shot Freaks and Dracula - London After Midnight was a silent horror about an old spooky house haunted by the vampire of its former owner who killed himself. For maximum chills, the horror maestro Lon Chaney had widened his eyes and lips with hidden wires to give his face a maniacal grimace, as shocking today as then. Robert had only seen the film once… …but for the rest of his life, it would torture his soul. The relationship of Julie & Robert began under uncertain circumstances. The exact date is unknown, but a month after her arrival in London, 21-year-old Julia Mangan was introduced by her room-mate Mary Lea, to a 27-year-old Welsh carpenter called either Walter Ellis or Mills - no-one was sure what. Why Robert used an alias is a mystery, but maybe being shamed of his past, he was hiding the truth? There was no doubt that Julia liked him; he wasn’t handsome but he was cute, he was sometimes funny but also serious, and although he skirted the facts of his past, his emotion was always honest. Mary Lea was undecided if he liked him and her brother Patrick dispised him from the start, but like Esmeralda in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, as a small girl with a big heart, she would always seek to see beyond the ugliness of his quirks and faults, to find true love inside her very own Quasimodo. It’s a romantic notion that no matter how deformed a person is that not every beast is a monster… …only Robert’s deformity was not upon his skin, but in his soul and in his brain. On 10th October 1927 - one week into their love and two weeks before her death - with his work rate eratic, Robert lost his job as a carpenter. With no job and no wage, he risked losing his lodging, only - as a man who was haunted by the spectre of his past - what he feared most was loneliness. As a habitual drinker, who boozed to quell his pain, where-as this perculiar boy was often odd, under the dreaded influence of alcohol, those who knew him said he became “crazy” and “unpredictable”. With no work to occupy his time, he drank. Supping to sooth his sickness, drink was not the medicine to aide his ailments and - lost in liquor - he could no longer trust his senses. As even while he was awake, he saw visions of a ghastly face he had feared for months and was goaded by a ghostly voice. On Saturday 20th October 1927 - one week before - being hungry and spent as the harrowing spirit haunted his addled mind, Robert had tried to end his torment by ripping apart his throat with a razor, only - unable to hold he blade straight - he had failed, having displeased the voice who only he knew. His death was soon, but how and when? And unable to kill himself, he grew obsessed with Julia. Wherever she went - like an icy wind howling down an unlit alley - it sent shivers down her spine to know that he was always behind her. Whenever she worked - like a havock-making gremlin - doors were knocked and doorbells rang. And even when she tried to sleep - like the bumps and crashes of a lonely poltergeist who demanded her undivided attention - he would never give her peace. On Sunday 21st October at 8:10pm - although it was against the rules to have any male-friends in her quarters - in her basement bedroom at 35 Stanhope Gardens, Patrick and his girlfriend Hannah came by, only to find Julia crying and Robert blind drunk and collapsed on he bed, muttering incoherantly. With his eyes as wide as a werewolf’s gaze minutes before seeing the moon, and his mouth as bloody as a vampire’s smile after feeding - having gashed his head and mouth in a drunken stumble - Robert didn’t look like he was in this world or the next, but trapped in a twilight land of misery and pain. As all he could utter was “I want Julia, I want Julie, I want Julie”, as if he was demented ot possessed. Unable to move him herself and being to frighten to do so - as a burly builder - Patrick hauled him up like a hod of bricks and carted the rambling reprobate out of her employer’s house, never to return. Robert was gone, Julia was grateful (as his presence risked her losing her job and the wages she sent back to her loved ones) but - more importantly - as the hard door was slammed behind him and this crazy crackpot landed flat in the street, to her brother Julia declared “I never want to see him again”, On Monday 22nd October 1927, he called again, but - this time - she kept him at a distance and her words brief. In her eyes, their love was dead and their relationship of just three-weeks was now over. Knowing how fragile he was, Julia needed to find the right words to break it to Robert gently… …only their parting words would come from her lips, or even his, but those of Lon Chaney. As a domestic servant, Tuesday 23rd October 1928 was a typical day for Julia Mangan; she cleaned, dusted, washed sheets and with her duties done, she finished her shift at 7pm. She had a bite to eat, she got dressed, she told Mary Lea “I’m going out for a breath of fresh air” and at 8:15pm she left. Robert’s day was a different to Julia’s as night is to day. Being bored, having sunk enough booze to sink a battleship, it wasn’t the beer in his gut which haunted his brain, as - every time he blinked - that face grimaced, those eyes glared and that voice goaded; mocking his manhood in a ceaseless whisper like a dying breath, of how he was weak. Even as - in his jacket pocket - he fingered the sharp blade of his cut-throat razor, the final act of his life was to be a river of blood spewing from his neck. Neither Julie nor Robert had spoke of their plans that night, so whether they had agreed to meet, or he had followed her to a familiar place? Nobody knows, but they would meet for one last time. The scene was set - Hyde Park, one of the few places a person can feel feel alone and isolated amidst the rippling chaos of London’s streets; it has darkness, shadows and silence. As an ancient hunting ground, blood has soaked into every inch of its soil and every tree has soaked-up the juices of death. The time was set - 10pm, more than four hours since the sun had set, and with a vague hint of moon obscured by a blanket of dark forboding clouds, the night was was as the sky brooded gloomily. Being mid-week and too late for the sensible, the park was as deathly quiet as an old abandoned crypt. Even the usual cackawing of crows or foxes screams were dulled by the endless traffic on Park Lane. And as for the actors in our terrifying horror - this intimate scene of love, loss and longing was to be played by a cast of only two; Robert & Julia, the victim and villain, who once loved but now loathed. It was an odd place to meet at any hour of the day or night. Perched on the eastern edge of Hyde Park, at a place called Fountain Gate, it’s both somewhere and nowhere; as being half way between Marble Arch and Welllington Arch, even when the park is fit to burst, it’s eerily quiet and silent. Sitting on a bench in the gap between a footpath and a horsetrack, the two sat talking. With no witnessest, what happened that night can only be based on the words from Robert’s mouth and the memories from his fevered mind, so how much of what follows is true or real is debateable? Robert would state: “We sat down and talked for a bit. I said I was going to give up the drink and that sometimes I felt I could not give it up”. He had tried many times in the past and had always failed. “Julia said ‘I will pray for you. God can do nothing unless you do yourself’”. As a Catholic, this was typical of her kindness, believing there was goodness in everyone and giving a hint of hope to follow. Only Robert’s demon wasn’t booze, but his brain. “My head was then getting troublesome. Thoughts came into my mind. I felt my head getting fuller and fuller. It seemed to be steaming at both sides, like a red hot iron being pushed inside my head”. And like all horror movies, in the third act, a shock twist would bolt us from our seats. “I thought I was in a room and a man was standing in the corner pulling faces at me, he threatened and shouted at me that he had got me where he wanted me”. Goading Robert and tormenting his soul - as he had done for several months since - before him was the face, the voice and the eyes of Lon Chaney. As real as the sweat on his own palm and the razor within - like a scene from London After Midnight - the horror maestro stood before Robert; his ghoulish eyes bulging as if the devil was gouging them out and his grimaced mouth goading him to kill, his famished fangs seeing his flesh as not enough of a feast. In the mind of a disturbed man - as the epitome of terror personified - Lon Chaney was here. “The last thing I remember was Julia whistling”, which was something she often did when she was both nervous and afraid, and as that familiar feeling pounded inside his skull, “I felt as if my head was going to burst” and with that, the music swelled, the lights dimmed and the screen faded to black. (Silence, projector) “I’m teling you the truth, I had no intention of hurting her”... At 10:10pm, alerted from Hyde Park police station set inside of Marble Arch, PC John Green raced to Fountain Gate to a report that a couple had “passed-out”. Only it was worse than he could imagine. Found between the path and the horsetrack, the first body found was Julia’s; face down and curdled up, her left hand still clutched at her throat, with her white glove saturated with blood, as a deep gash had ripped apart her flesh and drained her lungs of her last breath. An autopsy confirmed that the injury was “not self-inflicted” and “considerable force had been used to inflict such a wound”. She was declared dead at the scene. Nearby lay Robert. Like Romeo & Juliet, you may expect these two ex-lovers to die side-by-side? Only they were not. Robert was found face down, his back turned and 36 feet away. With his throat slit and the bloody razor in his left hand, it’s no mystery who murdered Julia Mangan. And yet, in his right, he held a letter, addressed to Julia, written by her mother - its contents never disclosed. (End) Discovered in a serious condition but miraculously still alive, Robert was rushed to nearby St George’s hospital, he was operated upon and being discharged a week later, he was arrested for her murder. Examined by Mr Watson, Medical Officer of Brixton Prison, no evidence of insanity or epilepsy was found and when recounting the incident, Robert did not mention being “terrified by a face”. When interviewed by Dr East, Medical Inspector of Prisons, he appeared emotional and depressed but did recall the face of Lon Chaney. And when examined by Dr James Cowen Woods, a specialist in mental diseases, it was believed he had suffered from an episode of epileptic automatism; a seizure of the frontal lobe where the patient is lucid, but unaware of their actions, as if they are sleepwalking. Declared sane and with a scarf covering the scar on his neck, on Wednesday 9th January 1929, at The Old Bailey, he pleaded not guilty to the charge of murder. Summing-up, Mr Justice Humphries asked the jury: “I do not know whether you have seen ‘London After Midnight’ in which Lon Chaney acted”, but he left the weight of the case up to thejury to decide; was he insane and guided by a terrifying memory of a horror actor in a film, or was he sane and merely using the idea of a vision as an excuse. Having initially failed to reach a verdict, after much deliberation, the next day, they found him guilty of murder. They did not believe he had seen Lon Chaney and he was sentenced to death. But on emotional grounds, his execution was later commuted to a life in penal servitude. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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Queensborough Terrace in Bayswater, where the attack took place
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 ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-FOUR:
On the night of Tuesday 6th June 1961, three American airmen were attacked by a group of local men armed with fists, bottles and a knife on Queensborough Terrace in Bayswater. 22-year-old Stanley Roach was stabbed to death and died in the melee. Only, his murder wasn’t as clear-cut as it seemed, and although there was no doubt that the two convicted men were guilty of Stanley’s murder, the big question is why? Why did they murder Stanley Roach, a man they didn’t know?
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THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a red raindrop at the top left of Hyde Park, by the words 'Long Water'. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
Thursday 10th February - MEPO 2/10443 - Murder of Stanley Thurman ROACH by Andrew XANTHOU, Daniel ATTARD and Xanthos ZACHARIA on 6 June 1961 at Queensborough Terrace, London, W2 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C556163 SOURCES:
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Queensborough Terrace in Bayswater, W2; one road north of the stabbing of PC Jack Avery in Hyde Park, two roads east of the pub where Dennis Nilsen met Twinkle, two roads south of the Blackout Ripper’s last victim, and one street west of the seemingly safe bed where a confused old lady was tortured to death in a real ‘hotel of horrors’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Running parallel with Queensway and the Bayswater tube, Queensborough Terrace consists of two lines of four-storey Georgian terraces, made of white render, black iron gates and fake doric columns. Having seen better days, some are homes, but most are slightly tacky B&B’s for tourists seeking the “real London”. Not everyday things like long queues, grumbling and dog-plop, but the cheesy stuff - like red phone boxes, soldiers in bearskins and portraits of the Queen - so they don’t feel cheated. As a hub for holiday-makers, Bayswater has adopted a similar cringe-making style, so expect to see; The Union Jack Flapjack Shack, The Queen Liz Bean & Fizz, The Dickens Wig & Hair-Thickening Clinic, The Princess Di Doe-Eyed Beauty Parlour and - thankfully - nothing with a certain Prince’s name on. At 49 Queensborough Terrace currently stands the Central Park Hotel, but back in the 1960s, this was the Knights Hotel; an affordable B&B mostly occupied by tourists, long-term residents and squaddies. On Tuesday 6th June 1961, three American airmen booked-in and headed out for a fun night. They were here to let-loose, but being attacked by a gang armed with bottles and a knife, one of the three would lose his life. The deadman was a US Citizen called Stanley Roach and he was just 21-years-old. Sadly, there is violence on every street, and often it is made worse when drunk angry idiots fuelled by arrogance pick on the innocent for no reason, and - in this case - they ruined three lives forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 174: Nothing But Common Thugs. On 3rd October 1961 - four months after his murder - three men stood in the dock of The Old Bailey; 20-year-old Andreas Xanthou, a Cypriot chef of Notting Hill; 22-year-old Daniel Attard, a Maltese salesman of Forest Gate; and 28-year-old Xanthou Zacharia, a Cypriot waiter of Leinster Gardens. In a four-day trial, Xanthou, Attard & Zacharia all pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the Grevious Bodily Harm of 2nd Class Airman Gerald Barreras and the murder of 2nd Class Airman Stanley Roach. Defended by Queen’s Counsel, a highly experienced but expensive solicitor whose services were entirely funded by the tax-payer, the three were expertly defended, even though the evidence was against them. From the crime-scene; their vicous attack was seen from several angles by impartial eye-witnesses in good light from a few feet away, their fingerprints matched the shards on the bottles they had hurled at and smashed over their victim’s skull, traces of Stanley’s blood were found on the wiped-clean murder weapon and one of his killer’s clothes, and - although they all denied holding the knife which ended his life - Xanthou, Attard & Zacharia were three bad men who did bad things for bad reasons. Born on the 28th July 1940 in Kyrenia, a coastal city in north Cyprus, Andreas Xanthou left his country in 1958 following his father’s death leaving behind his widowed mother and two younger siblings. Unable to get a job in the UK as a decorator, he worked sporadically in restaurants; at the Hellas in Piccadilly for four days in November 1959, at the Las Vegas Club on Stanhope Street for six months, and - supposedly - at the Barcelona on Old Compton Street, even though, by then, it had shut-down. When arrested, he gave his job title as a ‘chef’, only his work record showed he was a ‘kitchen porter’ and having not worked for a full year, he admitted to “living off the proceeds of gambling”. Nicknamed ‘Blackie’ and using the alias of Tony Blackia, Xanthou had one prior conviction for robbery with violence, and having served four months, he was released from prison on 22nd February 1961. Born on 23rd September 1938 in Sliema, a coastal district in northern Malta, Daniel Attard left school aged 15. His life had started well, having become an electrician in Sliema, Cuchgarie and Valetta dockyards for five years working on contracts for the British Government. But having left of his own accord in March 1959, he moved to the UK, only his new life lacked the opportunities he desired. From May 1959 to May 1961, he worked six months as a table-fitter, one month for Spratts Biscuits in Poplar and two months as a plate scullion onboard the SS Kenya Castle, only he was discharged from duty as his work was unsatisfactory. When arrested, he said he was a salesman, only he wasn’t. After one month in the UK, he was sentenced to three months at Marlborough Street police court for wilful damage and assaulting a policeman, and he lived at home with his parents in Forest Gate. And finally, there was Xanthou Zacharia. Born in Nicosia, the capital city of Cyprus on 17th February 1933, Zacharia was a criminal before he came to the UK; with one count of turkey theft and two counts of assault. Working intermittently as a waiter, a labourer, a mechanic, an ice-cream-maker, a rubber moulder and a fruit delivery driver, he had an extensive criminal record; with crimes ranging from the petty - theft, drunkenness and the use of offensive words - to the serious - burglary, car-theft, pimping and violent assault with a knife. At the time of his arrest, he had served twenty months in prison and hadn’t worked in six. On the 9th October 1961 - unable to prove his guilt - Zacharia was acquitted, and with neither man admitting that they had held the knife, both Xanthou and Attard were found guilty of the assault of Gerald Barreras and the murder of Stanley Roach. With the police stating that “society is well rid of them” being thugs who profited from violence and crime, both men were sentenced to life in prison. A few days after his murder, the body of 2nd Class Airman Stanley Roach was repatriated back to his grieving family in his hometown of Knoxville, Tennessee. He was a good man with a promising career whose young life was cut short in a random attack by three armed strangers who he did not know. It’s sad, but it’s an all-too common event in a city like London, where common thugs walk free among the innocent who are simply trying to live their lives without being beaten, accosted or murdered. We will never know who stabbed Stanley Roach to death… …but the real question shouldn’t be who, but why? Set aside the Swinging Sixties, 1961 was a year of escalating world tensions. Three years into the Vietnam war, one year from the Cuban Missile Crisis, three months since the Bay of Pigs, and with the Soviets having exploded Big Ivan - a 58 megaton hydrogen bomb, the largest ever built - and with Germany being partioned into East and West by a wall - the Cold War had gone from icy to nuclear. Seeking to extend their presence in Europe, the Ministry of Defence re-established this former World War Two airbase, so that US jets and bombers could be strambled at a minute’s notice. As air-crew, 2nd Class Airman Gerald Barreras was assigned to the Technical Fighter Wing alongside 3rd Class Airman William Hammond, with 2nd Class Airman Stanley Thurman Roach in Armament Electronics. Aged 20 to 21, as young lads embarking on an exciting mission in a foreign land - with money to burn and a penchant for gorgeous English girls - Stanley, William and Gerald worked hard and played hard. Being easy-to-spot; William was a big lump, Gerald had charm and Stanley was the baby-faced cutie. (Clock): Wednesday 31st May 1961, six days earlier. With ten days leave, William and Gerald came to London in William’s Volkswagen Beetle, parking up outside of 49 Queensborough Terrace and staying at the Knight’s Hotel. Having been there before, they liked it, as the hotel was cheap and the area was lively, but they hadn’t experienced any trouble. On Monday 5th June, they were joined by their buddy Stanley Roach who was on a three day pass. Their first night was as predictable as any; as they ate, drank, chatted up girls and headed to bed late. (Clock ticking:) Tuesday 6th June 1961, the day of the murder. Nothing happened before 2pm, as being cursed by a trio of stinking hangovers, Stanley, William and Gerald suffered for the silly levels of booze they had belted back the night before. But hey, they weren’t on duty, so why not? By 3pm, still feeling rough, they sat in Hyde Park soaking up a rare spot of British sun and shared a bottle of Canadian whiskey to take the edge off the pains in their bonces. At 7:30pm, having necked back a few “warm pints” (and not knowing they weren’t lagers but ales), at 9pm they headed one street west, to the 30 Club at 30 Queensbury, to drink and dance with girls. At 11pm, with the club closed, as Gerald had promised to walk the barmaid home to Queensborough Terrace, William & Stanley headed into Queensway looking for two nice girls for themselves. Their chances wouldn’t be great as both men were bladdered, but their boners didn’t know how to say no. With just 55 minutes until the attack, so far they had not met either Xanthou, Attard & Zacharia. (Clock:) At 11:50pm, with William having headed-off to Notting Hill, Gerald & Stanley staggered into Queensborough Terrace and fumbled with the key to his VW bug. Although hugely arseholed, being six years before the UK drink drive limit, they could drive pissed as long as they weren’t a danger. Only, in their condition, their immediate danger wasn’t from traffic but gangs of violent thugs. Focussed on the car, as the seriously sozzled twosome swore at its unruly key, three men of Cypriot and Maltese origin formed a semicircle of hate behind them; with one sporting balled-up fists, one armed with a stack of glass bottles and a third clutching a fourteen-inch knife, as long as a forearm. At that moment, the men were unaware of the deadly threat, as Xanthou, Attard & Zacharia loomed closer, intent on doing this isolated and outnumbered pair some serious damage and possibly death. It began, with Gerald being smashed over his head with a milk bottle, which split open his skull and sprayed blood across the car window and his wincing eyes. Before they could turn, in a cowardly attack, the three unleashed a volley of fists and feet, as Gerald and William struggled to fight back. Hearing their cries, lights came on in the neighbouring hotels as a sea of eye-witnesses watched the assault from several angles; as glass bottles smashed, men screamed and a sharp blade glinted. It was a melee of flying limbs and slamming bodies impossible to distinguish whose arm and whose leg. Unable to see through his bloody lids, Gerald shouted “there are too many of them, let’s go”, and as the two airmen staggered down Queensborough Terrace, as they turned onto the busy Bayswater Road, it became clear they were no longer being chased. And with their attackers having fled - being battered and exhausted - both Gerald and Stanley collapsed at the junction of Inverness Terrace. Bleeding profusely from a nasty gash to his head, as he wiped a red running river from his eyes, the gaggle of onlookers thought that Gerald was the worst hurt… …only seeing his woollen pullover pooling in an ever increasing crimson pump, it was as Stanley hit the floor with a hard thud, unable to even move, that the severity of his injuries became clear. An ambulance rushed both men to Paddington General. In A&E, Gerald received five stitches to his head, but - having been stabbed once in the heart - at 2:18am, Stanley Roach was pronounced dead. The death of Stanley Roach was described by eye-witnesses as a mindless act by cowardly thugs who the police said “society is well rid of them”. Both men were drunk, unarmed and outnumbered. Such brutality on an innocent person never makes any sense… …but why were Gerald and Stanley attacked? Was it random, or did it have a reason? (Clock) Rewind to 11pm. With the 30 Club shut and Gerald walking the barmaid home, Stanley & William drunkenly stumbled onto Queensway looking for girls. Being drunk and horny, they weren’t in the mood for a nice chat with a filly or a possible friend, they were here to fuck - plain and simple. Checking-in at the Knight’s Hotel, all three Americans hadn’t signed in with their own names, but aliases; William was Robert Bryant, Gerald was Joe Alberto and Stanley Roach was Stanley L Donnell. When asked why, all three said “this was to prevent us being identified, if there was any trouble with the girls”. Which begs the question, why do this, if you don’t plan to do something immoral or illegal? Thirty minutes later, on the corner of Moscow Road and Queensway, having failed to pick-up two girls, William Hammond - a big guy with a foul temper when he was steaming - smacked a stranger in the face for no reason what-so-ever; bloodying his nose and splaying the lad across the street. Having been assaulted by a common thug and rightly incensed, the victim did the right thing and alerted a passing policeman. The two strangers were a 21-year old chef called Andreas Xanthou and - sporting a bloody lip - the victim was a 22-year-old Maltese salesman called Daniel Attard. At 11:40pm, Daniel pointed out William Hammond to PC Collier shouting “he just hit me”. With one word against the other and their pals - Andreas Xanthou siding with Daniel Attard, and Stanley Roach siding with William Hammond - the constable had no power to arrest, only to apply for a summons. Furious that his attacker was set to walk free from an unprovoked assault, as a hot-heated man still smarting from a serious thump, Daniel stormed off, shouting “I will deal with this myself, I will get my friends, we will get you for this”. And with Daniel having left the scene, no crime could be charged. One block north-west of the random assault on Daniel Attard - seeking a weapon - Andreas headed into Gray’s restaurant on Prince’s Square, a place he had waitered and stole a 14-inch kitchen knife. Hopped-up with rage having been insulted by a fat yank, on their streets, in the home - having met Xanthou Zacharia - Andreas, Daniel & Zacharia scoured every nook and cranny of Bayswater for the two; with fists balled, bottles stashed and brandishing a big knife which would soon take a man’s life. Ten minutes later, they would unleash their fury on Barreras and Roach… …but even that doesn’t explain why Hammond punched Daniel? (Clock) 11:45pm. At the junction of Moscow Road and Queensway. With Daniel & Xanthou having stormed-off fuming “we will get you for this”, local taxi-driver Maurice Greenberg approached PC Collier; his face bruised, his glasses broken, and - in a mirror image of the incident just a few minutes before - he pointed to Hammond and stated “that man hit me and them”. Indicating to the two girls behind him - both red-faced, furious and scuffed - as this time witnesses had seen this assault, Hammond was swiftly arrested and escorted to Notting Hill police station. Having been left on his own, Roach headed back to their hotel on Queensborough Terrace, where Barreras had walked the barmaid home, and - having recounting the story - the drunken twosome fumbled with the key, trying to get into Hammond’s VW bug, to bail this loose-cannon out of jail. Being angry and humiliated, it was unlikely that Andreas, Daniel & Zacharia ever intended to kill the baby-faced GI when they surrounded them. What they did was not right, as a punch doesn’t warrant a death. But with all six (whether Cypriot, Maltese or American) being hot-headed, they didn’t think. In a moronic melee of fists and feet, which both sides could easily have quelled the tensions having calmed down, seen sense or issued an apology. But as five angry men fought to prove nothing but their manhood, they gave as good as they got until the fight got too much… and one man lay dead. All of it could have been prevented by common sense… …and although it explained the incident, it doesn’t explain the spark. (Clock): 11pm. With the 30 Club closed, as Barreras walked the barmaid home, William & Stanley headed onto Queensway looking for girls; both bladdered, but with their boners unable to say no. At this point - being elsewhere - Andreas, Daniel & Zacharia were unaware the Americans even existed. In his own words, Hammond would state “we were walking the streets of Baywater looking for girls with a view to sex”. Whether local ladies or prostitutes, they didn’t care as long as they got to stick their pointless little dicks in any random chick at the Knight’s Hotel. And if she complained, the police would end up chasing three aliases known only as Robert Bryant, Joe Alberto and Stanley L Donnell. At 11:15pm, in an alley behind the 30 Club, Hammond & Roach approached two girls smoking. “We met two girls and asked them to go with us”. There was no “hello”, no “how are you”, just a blunt and drunken “hey girls, let’s fuck”, as if they didn’t want to waste their energy on chatting, only shagging. As flat-mates out for a drink, 23-year-old Inger Robinson and 25-year-old Jean Stokes didn’t know who these arrogant little assholes were. World War Two was over, the days of GIs carrying nylons and Hershey bars were gone, and besides, compared to good old British chocolate, it tasted like dog-shit. But what got their goat was being treated like pieces of meat by two rude little shitbags who couldn’t string a sentence together and who wafted their money about like they were King ‘fucking’ Farouk. These girls were not sex-workers, but with Hammond waving £5 in their faces - bartering to buy their bodies to do their dirty deeds to - insulted, Inger & Jean told them to “Sod off” and walked off. Although too drunk to remember, Hammond would later deny this took place… …but what happened next was witnessed by others. Seeing the girls as theirs and unwilling to accept “no” as an answer to their bulging pants, Hammond & Roach followed the girls up Queensway, to the junction of Bayswater Road, insisting they “put out”. Hailing a taxi, as Jean tried to get in and be rid of these randy roaches forever, having grabbed the door so the cab couldn’t leave, Hammond offered £10 for sex. With Inger & Jean seething, seeing trouble brewing, the bespectacled taxi-driver - Maurice Greenberg - came round to assist. It was then that the moment turned… …offering a deliberately insulting sum “how about two shillings and six pence?”, Roach remarked “nah, they ain’t worth it, they’re just a couple of skags”. Furious, Jean asked him to repeat it, he did, and as she went to slap him, Stanley Roach, the baby-faced airman, punched her squarely in the face. Falling to the floor, as Ingar tried to defend her friend, Hammond kicked her to the ground and the two cowards continued kicking these two girls, as they lay on the pavement screaming and bleeding. The taxi-driver stepped in to break it up, but being punched by Hammond - whose quick temper and fast fists would get him into trouble just a few minutes later - seeing a policeman, the airmen fled. Smarted by the girls’ rejections and spoiling for a fight - by chance - Hammond & Roach headed towards the junction of Moscow Road and into the path of Daniel Attard & Andreas Xanthou. (End) Seen fleeing the scene of this seemingly unprovoked stabbing on Queensborough Terrace, Andreas Xanthou wiped the knife clean and returned it to Grey’s restaurant. In hospital, Barreras described the gang who had attacked them, as “swarthy, curved nosed and thick lipped”, along with a wealth of unsavoury details reflecting an era where foreigners were described as if they were always the villain. Back-up by witnesses and fingerprints, police arrested three unemployed men; Andreas Xanthou alias Tony Blackia, a recently released Cypriot criminal on bail for violent robbery; Daniel Attard, a Maltese “salesman” with a conviction for assaulting a policeman; and Xanthou Zacharia, a Cypriot gambler with a criminal record for theft, drunkenness, burglary, pimping and assault with a knife. In court, with “society well rid of them”, although Xanthou Zacharia was acquitted, Daniel Attard & Andreas Xanthou were sentenced to life in prison. It’s true that all three were bad men who did bad things - not one of them was an angel - but with manslaughter taken off the table, what wasn’t taken into account was the provocation initiated by William Hammond, Gerald Barerras and Stanley Roach. Every crime has a culprit and a motive, but it’s not always as clear to see when you look through the prism of name, rank and uniform. On paper, the three airmen were decent men doing a good job during a time of conflict, but when let off the leash, they were nothing more than common thugs. Hammond & Barreras were charged with no offences, and Stanley Roach was buried with honours. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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The Peabody Buildings on Roupell Street in Waterloo
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 ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-THREE:
On the night of Thursday 7th December 1950, 42-year old William Donoghue stabbed 74-year-old Thomas Meaney to death. The two men had met that night (as friends of a friend), they got on well, they had been drinking and then they fell asleep. The attack was unprovoked and frenzied. And yet, this would be an incident so bizarre, even William would struggle to believe that he had murdered Thomas Meaney… but he had.
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. Manslaughter of Thomas Meaney by William Donoghue at Duchy Street, Waterloo, SE1 on 8 Dec 1950 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10887894https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4202234 MUSIC: Man in a Bag by Cult With No Name (Intro) Hard Times To Come Again No More by The Westerlies Horror House by Aaron Kenney Delirium by Kai Engel Sunset by Kai Engel UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today i’m standing on Roupell Street in Waterloo; a few streets south of the ‘happy slapping’ attack on David Morely, the dumped body of Peggy Roberts, the frozen remains of baby Harry Hartley and one street west of the woman who never spoke her killer’s name - coming soon to Murder Mile. Created by social visionary George Peabody in late 1800s, the Peabody buildings were (and still are) a series of inner-city estates to provide clean and affordable housing for the most disadvantaged. To qualify, every tenant must be neat, decent, law-abiding and obey the rules on noise and cleanliness. As beyond these precision pieces of brownstone history, you won’t find a dumped fridge, a stinky bin bag, a slumped drunk, a corridor blocked by ten pairs of pants wiggling on a line like a budget Magic Mike, a sad singleton belting out Whitney on a loop, or the courtyard crammed full of car parts like a hoarder got bored building a museum to a Nissan Micra scrap-yard - simple rules we could all live by. Back in 1950, Flat 21 on the fourth floor of Block F was home to a 42-year-old bachelor called William Donoghue. Described as quiet and pleasant, he was typical of the residents. By day, he worked hard as a bus conductor, and by night (if he wasn’t on an early shift) he would go to his local pub for a pint. William was an ordinary man with no real problems who was never angry, violent or disturbed. But all that would change on the night of Thursday 7th December 1950, when in an unprovoked and frenzied attack, he would brutally stab a friend-of-a-friend to death. This was an incident so bizarre, even William would struggle to believe that he had murdered Thomas Meaney… but he had. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide and this is Murder Mile. Episode 173: A Buddy, A Dummy, A Dead Man. To say that William Donoghue was an ordinary man would be an understatement. Born on the 7th April 1908, William known as ‘Bill’ was raised in an Irish Catholic family, as the second youngest of three brothers and three sisters to George & Nellie Donaghue. Being working-class with a basic education, they earned an honest living, kept out of trouble and their lives were uneventful. As a person, he stood-out only as much as the next man being of average height and build, he had neat dark hair, a fresh face and prominent eyebrows - but not to the point where people would stare. Having left school aged 14, William began a series of low-paid but well-respected jobs at which he stayed for two-to-three years, left of his own accord and his work record ranged from satisfactory to exemplary. Beginning in 1922 as a page-boy and lift-attendant at the Strand Palace Hotel, from 1925 to 1930 he was a barman (in Southwark, Dagenham and Covent Garden), he spent seven years as a porter at Waterloo station, three years lugging frozen meats at a storage firm, and - when war was declared - he enlisted to fight as a Private in the Army serving in France, Egypt and the Middle East. As many men did, he was awarded several Campaign medals having fought, he suffered no obvious trauma, he openly spoke of his service (but never bragged) and he retained his bayonet as a souvenir. Discharged on the 27th September 1945 - always keen to earn an honest crust - within three weeks he had begun a new career as a conductor on the No10 bus from Brixton to Waterloo. Being diligent; he was polite, cheerful and punctual, he earned £6 and 5 shillings a week (which wasn’t much, but it was enough to pay his bills and keep him comfortable) and his uniform was neat and freshly ironed. Like most people, his life was pockmarked with little tragedies - his mum died when he ws 17, his dad and older brother died when he was 26, and his sister Nellie had suffered a breakdown in 1935 and had remained as an inpatient at Cane Hill Mental Hospital for the last 15 years - but he dealt with it. Of his three surviving siblings, they all lived locally - with his younger brother Albert in Peckham and his two older sisters, Kathleen in Kennington and Eileen in Brixton - who he saw on a regular basis. In the summer of 1948 - having fulfilled the tenancy criteria - William moved into 21F of the Peabody Buildings. Comprising of a room measuring just 14 feet by 12, it wasn’t much but it was enough for him. With space for a single bed, a solitary arm-chair, a small table and a chest of drawers, it was practical and lacked a homely touch, but as he lived alone and rarely had guests, it suited his needs. He had a wireless for his nightly entertainment, a small hob for cooking basic meals (although he preferred to eat lunch and dinner in the bus garage canteen) and - typically for an ex-Army bachelor - instead of buying a bread-knife, he cut thick doorstop slices of white bread with his 10-inch bayonet. And that’s pretty much it. William Donoghue was an unremarkable as anyone. Across his 42-years of life, he had never married or had kids and had no plans to do so. He lived a solitary life with a small group of friends, but could happily chat to anyone in a pub without being a bother. He drank but wasn’t a drunk, he had never been arrested, and his health was good with no known afflictions. So, why he would stab his guest to death is anyone’s guess. But he did… …only he wouldn’t know it. Just as William was as ordinary as anybody else, Thursday 7th December 1950 was a day which began like any other. Being mid-week, he still had a few days to work till the weekend, but having received his Christmas bonus, he was looking forward to spending the festive holiday with his loved ones. In court, William would state “I finished work at 1:22pm”. As he was due on the early shift the next day, he would usually head home, pop on the radio and be in bed by nine, but with a stack of notes burning a hole in his pocket, he felt like he deserved a bit of a blow-out. “Before going to my sister’s in Brixton, I had two Guinnesses in the Black Horse and two in the Windmill”. His consumption was not excessive for him, the pubs were familiar and he sat reading the paper and chatting to the locals. “I stopped at my sister’s from a little after three to twenty past four”. He collected a suit, he seemed his usual self and he didn’t complain of any issues or incidents. Up until the moment of his arrest for murder, he had never committed a violent act. He had no debts, no secrets and he didn’t suffer from any emotional outbursts. Everyone who knew him would praise his meekness and his even-temper. “I got home at twenty past five”. A sighting confirmed by Marguerite Veitch, his next-door neighbour at 22F who confirmed he stayed for about ten minutes. He courtesouly greeted her, and left just after half-five still wearing his dark grey uniform and overcoat as a bus conductor for London Transport. “I went to a pub called the Dark Horse on Blackfriars Road”, where - being a regular - “I played a few games of darts with the guvnor and two customers, and had several Guinnesses to drink”. Which was the only thing different about that night as “I don’t usually drink Guinness, only mild or bitter”. At 6pm, William entered The Prince Albert further up Blackfriars Road, a few streets from his home. Again, as a regular, he had a few Guinnesses and played darts with the landlord (Edward Wilson) and several employees of the Amalgamated Press, who didn’t know him but said he was “very friendly”. So far, William was yet to meet Thomas Meaney, the man he would murder… …and stranger still, as a friend-of-a-friend, William barely knew him. Oddly, although the two were little more than strangers, they were as similar as long-lost brothers. Born in 1890, 60-year-old Thomas Meaney known as Tom was a quiet good-natured man of medium build and height, who liked darts, beer and sport. Being a generation older than William, he was unable to see active service in the FIrst World War owing to a deformed right forearm and a false elbow joint, but he did his duty as a messenger and had been a police driver for the last 30 years. Unlike William, Thomas was married, having been a loyal husband to Margaret for 39 years raising a family of eight children (two of whom still lived at home) and they lived on nearby Stamford Street. As a creature of habit, Thomas kept to a routine as regular as it was predictable. Working out of the Lambeth Police Garage five-days-a-week, he would finish by 6pm, be home by 7:15pm, and that day would be no different. He had a wash, ate some tea, did his pools coupons and at 9:25pm he headed out to the pub - something he did three times-a-week, occasionally with his wife but not often. As per usual, Margaret waved him goodbye, knowing that he would be back by 10:30pm, or 10:40pm at the latest, where she would stay up listening to the radio, and together they go to bed at 11:30pm. At 9:30pm, as regular as clockwork, Thomas Meaney met 72-year-old Richard Copley known as ‘Dick’ in the Brunswick Arms at 25 Stamford Street, his local pub situated just 300 yards from his home. As pals for 40 years, the two always sat quietly in the public saloon playing cards, chatting and drinking no more than three pints of mild. Neither man was a big drinker and Thomas disliked spirits. According to his friends, Thomas was pleasant, easy-going, an affable chap who was no trouble, and was not “given to playing practical jokes”. This might seem an odd thing to say, but it will make sense. So far, nothing had happened to forewarn Thomas of the danger ahead… …and this is how the night would remain, right up to the moment he was murdered. Back at The Prince Albert pub on Blackfriars Road, having sunk six bottles of Guinness (which was about average) William purchased a bottle of Booth’s gin and a bottle of orange squash as off-sales, as he was planning to visit his other sister the next day, and placed them in his overcoat pockets. When he left at 9:45pm, the landlord said he looked relatively sober as he said “goodnight”. William could have gone home to bed as he had work the next morning, but with 45 minutes until closing, he decided to go to the Brunswick Arms - a nice pub he had been to before, but he was not a regular at. At 10:15pm, two hours before the murder, William entered the pub. Seeing Richard, who he knew as they lived on adjacent streets, Richard introduced William to Thomas. The two men knew of each other (William: “Oh, I’ve seen you a few times drinking at The Stamford”, Thomas: “Yeah, that’s right. Good pub that”, William: “Yeah, good pub, decent pint too”), but they had never met until that day. As the three sat chatting in a tone described as “friendly” and “calm”, William bought them both a half pint (as they were over their usual three pint limit), and they sat drinking until “last orders”. What happened next was a little odd, but not out-of-character. With the bar shut - even though the gin was for his sister - William opened the bottle. He poured himself a shot, but having missed Richard’s glass as he moved it and Thomas’ having covered his glass with his hand. Being reprimanded by the manager - (“hey, what do you think you are doing? Do you want to get me into trouble?”) - William apologised, re-corked the bottle and the three men left. William was good-natured about his little indiscretion and witnesses said he was tipsy but not drunk. At 10:30pm, the three men exited the pub, as friendly as they had been all night. Ten minutes later, they entered Duchy Street, a third of a mile south-west of the Brunswick Arms. As this was the road where Richard lived, he bid them a “goodnight” and left. Thomas was due home and with both men working the next day, they should have called it a night, only with William stating “I said to this chap ‘come up and have a drink. I’ll open this bottle of gin’”, Thomas decided to do so. At 10:45pm, Thomas Meaney and WIlliam Donoghue entered flat 21F of the Peabody Buildings. They sat, drank and laughed. “We had a nice little chat, opened up the bottle and we drank the lot. After we had emptied the bottle he lay on my bed with his overcoat on. I sat on the chair leaning on the table, and more or less dozed off”. And that was that, as the two men drifted off to sleep (snoring). Within the hour, William would stab Thomas to death in a blind frenzy… …and yet, his motive would be so bizarre, it would defy belief, even to him. The morning of Friday 8th December 1950 was cold and bitter with a bright glaring sun. It had been a long night for Margaret Meaney, as she lay in a half empty bed wondering why her husband hadn’t come home. Unable to concentrate on anything else, she cut short her graveyard-shift as a cleaner, and followed Thomas’ usual route from his house to the Brunswick Arms. But it would all be in vain, as across the morning, word bled through the streets of Waterloo that a man’s body had been found. At 7:20am, (alarm clock) the splitting wail of his alarm clock pierced his thick head, as William awoke in a fug. He never normally drank on the night before an early-shift, and having sunk 10 bottles of Guinness and drained a bottle of gin, with his skull pounding, now he was regretting the whole night. “Before I got into bed, I put an alarm clock on the stool by the side of the bed. It was set for half past four. It had been like that all week. I don’t know whether it went off, but when I woke up, the alarm said twenty past seven”. And seeing he had overslept, his first thought was “Shit! I’m late for work”. Standing up as best as his wobbly legs would allow, he spotted his crumpled uniform at the foot of his solitary arm-chair in this small empty room. With the curtains closed, this little space suitable for a bachelor was bathed in black, but as he switched on the light, it was then that he saw the blood. It was everywhere; across the floor, up the walls and on the bed. With a thick sticky pool of crimson at his feet, dark arcs of red spattered up his chest of drawers, and a long heavy trail as if something had been dragged from the floor to the door, William saw blood on his hands, only he was not hurt. “It can’t have been” he thought, “no, I saw it myself, it can’t have been real”. But it was. On the table lay the detritus of last night’s fun; two glasses, a newspaper, an empty bottle of gin and lying dead centre (as always) was his 10-inch bayonet. Still sharp from his military service, the blade which was usually dotted with tiny crumbs of white bread was instead thick with blood up to the hilt. With booze still coursing through his veins, it could have been a trick of the light, an echo of a dream or a sick prank by a pal with a warped sense of fun? Only he knew that it wasn’t. As following the red smudged trail to his door - two foot wide by twenty feet long - as he reached the communal landing on the fourth floor of Block F, there he found the truth and the horror - “Oh god, what have I done?” At 7:30am, having exited her flat, 74-year-old widow Emma Duthie saw William. His pale face etched in shock as he stared at the motionless body of the man he knew he had murdered. With a trembling voice, he asked “Mrs Duthie, will you call the police?” and he went back inside to await his arrest. (Siren) Just as dawn was breaking, through the dim winter light, PC’s Woodcock and Ross arrived to secure the scene. Seeing William seated and nervously smoking a cigarette which shook in his hand like a persistant blur, he confessed “If that is a real man? Then I done it. I thought he was joking with me. I must have struck him with my bayonet and dragged him onto the landing”. William Donoghue was arrested on the charge of murder, and he was calmly escorted to Southwark police station. The investigation was headed-up by Chief Inspector Leslie Knight of CID. It was a case as clear-cut as any he had investigated before. As the only suspect; William Donoghue was seen with Thomas Meaney in the Brunswick Arms by the landlord, on Duchy Street by Richard Copley who heard William invite Thomas back to his room for a drink, and by several neighbours who heard them return to the Peabody Buildings and Flat 21F. Both William and Thomas’ fingerprints were found on both bottles and glasses, their alcohol levels were as heavy as two men who had drained a large bottle of gin, William’s bayonet and hands were stained with Thomas’ blood group, and - even clearer - William had confessed to the man’s murder. Lying face-down along concrete corridor connecting the fourth-floor flats; with his legs straight and his arms above his head, it was clear that William had dragged Thomas by his hands. With a bloody pool having formed under his face and his clothing soaked, the body had been dumped while he was still alive but not conscious, as he hadn’t moved a muscle. And comparing his body temperature to the night itself, being dead for roughly seven hours, that put his time of death at roughly midnight. When questioned, three witnesses - Marguerite Veitch in the flat to his right, Emma Duthy to his left and John Howard one floor below - heard three distinct ‘thuds’ at 11:55pm, confirmed as Marguerite looked at her clock. But no-one could tell where they had come from, and they heard nothing else. For the detective, William had definitely murdered Thomas, but the question wasn’t how, but why? These were two semi-strangers with no previous grudge, who had joined each other by invite, in the home of the culprit. They hadn’t argued, and no screams were heard, only laughter. When his body was examined, Thomas’ wallet, watch and wedding ring were all in place. There was no evidence of poisoning or assault, and both men were medically examined, ruling out any hint of homosexuality. But stranger still were the results of the autopsy. At 4:30pm, Dr Keith Simpson examined the body of Thomas Meaney at Southwark Mortuary. With an alcohol level of 300 milligrammes of alcohol per 100 millilitres of blood, Thomas was heavily intoxicated, which was why there were no defensive wounds to his hands, arms or fingers. Suffering an blunt trauma to his face, nose and chin, the unconscious man had either fallen or had been pulled out of bed and had hit the floor hard, too drunk to wake. Based on his injuries, Thomas was lying on his side, facing right when he was attacked. And with his wounds consistent with a bayonet, William had stabbed Thomas in his head and neck seventeen times in an assault described as frenzied. With 11 wounds penetrating 1 ½ inches deep and grouped about his cheek, 6 others had sunk 4 ½ inches into his neck, splitting his jugular vein, carotid artery, and resulting in blood-loss and shock. The evidence against William was irrefutable, and yet one question remained unanswered. Why did he murder Thomas Meaney? At 2:15pm in Southwark Police Station, still a little worse-the-wear for drink, William gave an answer, only it would be one which even he would struggle to believe. (End) Cautioned, William would state “I woke up cold and I wanted to get to my bed as I was early duty. I shook the chap in my bed and said ‘come on, get up’. When he did not move I thought he was playing a practical joke on me. I pulled him again and said ‘come on’. He fell on the floor, he didn’t move, and I thought it was a dummy or mannequin. He fell like a sack of coal. I got hold of it again, thinking the man was hiding somewhere in the room or the corridor, and I said ’this is what I’ll do with your dummy’. I picked up the bayonet up off my table - I used it as a bread knife - and I stabbed down”. “After I stabbed down, I saw red, and thought it was a theatrical thing he was using, where you pinch a tube and blood spurts out. I dragged it across the floor through the door to the landing, and as I let go of it, I said ‘that’s what I think of your dummy’. I still thought he was hiding nearby or had left the building leaving the dummy behind. I went back in my room, set my alarm clock and went to bed”. To William, this was the only logical explanation as he had no reason to murder Thomas. Examined at Wandsworth Prison, William appeared exhausted and shocked but was co-operative, and was declared fit to stand trial. For the police, as strange as his motive seemed, William was not a crazed maniac who had snapped, as to everyone he was “a quiet, inoffensive and respectable man”. Believing his story that he truly thought the man was a dummy, fuelled by excessive drinking which had resulted in loss of judgement and potentially caused hallucinations, he was charged with murder. But on the 9th January 1951 at the Old Bailey, he pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter. William Donoghue served three years in prison for the death of Thomas Meaney. And although the jury agreed that the attack had been a drink-induced accident, upon his release from prison, he lost his job as a bus conductor and - having breached its rules - he lost his flat at the Peabody Buildings. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
The entrance to London Zoo on Outer Circle, Regent's Park, NW1
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 ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-TWO:
Back in the 1920’s, London Zoo had two elephant experts; Sayed Ali and San Dwe. They lived on site, they loved their elephants, and - according to the zoo’s owners - everything was going swimmingly. That was until the night of Friday 24th August 1928, when Sayed was found beaten to death in his bed. But who would want to murder this little man, and what did it have to do with the most sacred of elephants?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
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 is marked with a red raindrop at the top end of the park to the left. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. MEPO 3/1640 - Murder of Sayaid Ali by San Dwe at Zoological Gardens, Regents Park, N.W, on 25 August, 1928 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257682
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in London Zoo, on the north-east corner of Regent’s Park, NW1; a short walk from the first two possible murders by the Blackout Ripper, the discovery of the strangely reverent body of ‘Renee’ Hanrahan and the scattered remains of the sex-pest who crept - coming soon to Murder Mile. Established in 1828 as the London Zoological Society, London Zoo has provided education to the city’s citizens for almost two hundred years. It’s a wonderful place to experience animals beyond London’s persistently shagging foxes, scuttling buck-toothed rats and our famously deformed pigeons. As here, kids can giggle at the bright red butt-cheeks of baboons and go “oooh” at the large piles of poo. London Zoo has thousands of animals; whether lions, tigers, camels, crocodiles, apes, fish, penguins, snakes, spiders and even Komodo dragons, but they don’t have elephants. With the last having left to live in at Whipsnade Safari Park in 2001, this ended a long traditional of elephants at the zoo. Back in the 1920’s, London Zoo had two elephant experts; Sayed Ali and San Dwe. They lived on site, they loved their elephants, and - according to the zoo’s owners - everything was going swimmingly. That was until the night of Friday 24th August 1928, when Sayed was found beaten to death. But who would want to murder this little man, and what did it have to do with the most sacred of elephants? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 172: The Sacred One. (Siren, bushes rustling). PC: “You? In the bushes. Identity yourself", San: “I’m San Dwe, elephant keeper”, PC: “Christ! What happened to you?”, San: “Four men… they try to kill me”. (Siren passes). Imagine this. You’ve lived in a dark chaotic city your whole life. Sputtering trams cram the roads, tall chimneys belch plumes of smoke across the horizon turning the blue skies grey, and the only hints of nature are the trees in the parks, the horses pulling carts and you’ve never even seen a cow or a sheep. Maybe in a book or a film you may have seen an image of an elephant, but this is impossible to imagine – as standing 8 and 13 feet tall, 10 to 16 feet long and weighing 5000 to 15000 lbs – an elephant is the largest land mammal on Earth. And suddenly there it is, in a 350-acre park in the heart of the city. In many religions, the elephant is the symbol of wisdom, loyalty, love and luck, and they epitomise the spirit of the gentle giant. But to the average person, an elephant is a spectacle of wonder and awe. In the 1920’s, the London elephants were celebrities; newspapers printed their names, postcards were adorned with their image and people could ride their backs, seeing further than many had ever seen. Britain didn’t have the expertise to ensure that the elephants were well-cared-for, so the zoo hired the best man they could from one of the countries where the elephants roam free – India… …and his name was Sayed Ali. In 1922, having travelled 4500 miles by ship from Calcutta to Southampton, 26-year-old Sayed had left behind his wife and children to seek-out a better wage for their future. Back in India, he was just an animal trainer, but to millions of Londoners, Sayed was as much a spectacle as the elephants. As a little man from foreign climes, Sayed exuded mysticism to the masses. Unlike the pasty locals, his skin was brown like the purest cane sugar, his robes were ornately stitched with intricate symbolism, like an Indian king he wore a mystical turban and he spoke in a strange language no-one understood. Sayed knew that he was unique, and as a mahout who trained and drove the elephants, he earned £2 and 10s a week, but often as much as £5 (more than the average weekly wage) thanks to tips. He liked his job, he stood proud, he was well-regarded and he had become quite the local celebrity. But – as can be expected – his life was not as easy as Sayed made it look. Giving elephant rides by day, his hours were long and exhausting. By night, he bathed, fed and watered them, he checked their pads for injury and slept when he could. As a Muslim, his prayer times were chaotic, and living in a country of pies and puddings, his stomach ached for fresh fruit and vegetables. Given his prestige, you might expect him to live in modest comfort or luxury, but he was treated no better than an animal. Situated in the far north-western corner of the zoo – being perched between the screeching baboons on Monkey Hill, a caged orangutang, a rubbish incinerator and a steaming dung heap – he had a bed and tiny kitchen in a small two-roomed loft-space above the Tapir House. His status of a minor celebrity had brought him some benefits, but the notoriety had also brought him danger. As a man who some feared as he looked different - with fascism on the rise – he was subjected to abuse, assaults and threats. And fearing the theft of all his savings, with his bedroom window barely a few feet from the Outer Circle (insert drunks, glass smashing “go home black man”, “bog off darky”), at night he would sit in a trembling darkened silence, having hid his money in a green padlocked box. Worse still was the inclement British weather. Coming from a country of scorching hot summers, the incessant drizzle and grey gloom had taken its toll on his health. So when autumn came and the zoo closed, having bedded the elephants down, Sayed would return to Calcutta with a raging cold. Like most jobs, it had its perks and pitfalls… …only Sayed was not the only celebrity at the zoo. In the summer of 1926, as part of the world tour by entertainment empresarios The Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Circus - having spent two years travelling from Burma to be exhibited in India and America - Pawah, a 10-year-old albino elephant would make its grand entrance at London Zoo. Captured in 1919, this incredibly rare elephant was as pale as the whitest marble. Owned by Dr Saw Po Min of the Burmese Karen Zoological Society, to many cultures (like those in Burma and Siam), a white elephant wasn’t just unique; it was sacred, revered, a symbol of power and a blessing from God. PaWah was a worldwide sensation and to ensure the well-being of this celebrity, the circus hired the best animal trainers and keepers, as alongside a team of ten, PaWah was accompanied by San Dwe. Jokingly known by his English pals as ‘Sandy Wee’, although San was only 20-years-old when he arrived at London Zoo, he had an intuitive understanding of elephants. Described as a softly spoken man who was as humble as he was still, he wasn’t here to become famous, he was here to care for Pawah. Dressed in a wrinkled suit and a crumpled hat, San was described as “one of the gentlest of fellows”; he didn’t drink, swear or raise his voice; he didn’t care for prestige, fame or riches; and he loved his elephants so much that – if they were sick – he would sleep beside them until they were healthy. As a Burmese Karen Christian, his mild personality made him the perfect choice to be Pawah’s keeper, especially as the tour was not without controversy. Two years earlier, Buddhist monks had protested the circus, appealed to the government and – with their threats falling on deaf ears – they had warned that a curse would befall anyone who removed this sacred elephant from its homeland. Seeing only pound signs, this mystical curse was ignored by the circus… …and soon, a river of blood would come to London Zoo. (Creaking door). San: “Sayed? Sayed? No”, PC: “Oh…Christ! Somebody get an ambulance”. (siren pass) The late summer and autumn months of the North American tour had been a great success, with the audiences of New York and Chicago wowed by this miraculous beast. With each elephant and handler as healthy as when they had left, heading back to Burma, the curse had seemed like an empty threat. In November 1928, the circus stopped off for two weeks in Regent’s Park. With Sayed having returned to Calcutta - coughing and sneezing being seized by his usual cold - as a baby elephant called Chang had been born, when Pawah headed home, the zoo asked San Dwe to stay on as the new keeper. With the zoo closed, he only earned a modest wage for weening the baby elephant, but being keen to ensure the health and welfare of the others – off his own back - he cared for all of the elephants while Sayed was away; feeding, bathing and mucking them out. It was a job that he loved without complaint. San Dwe had been the elephant trainer for seven months at London Zoo, across which time, this quiet and friendly man had made many friends and he was well-respected for his compassion and expertise. Everybody loved San Dwe… …everyone, except Sayed Ali. On the surface, Sayed was always professional, a little man who stood tall and knew his place as the famous face of London Zoo. But having returned to Regent’s Park where he was known and respected, suddenly he had discovered that a young upstart had taken his crown as the elephant king. In his eyes, he had worked so hard, and now everything had been stolen from him by this pretender. As the elephant expert, he had been usurped by someone who didn’t just ride them, he could raise them. As another dark-skinned man, the exotic look of Sayed Ali was no longer unique. And with both men living on-site, in the two-roomed loft space above the Tapir House, San slept in the other bed. For the owners of the zoo, it was win-win and everything seemed to be going tickety-boo. Sayed never showed his anger in public, he was too smart for that, but in private, he would make San’s life hell. Believing these two “outsiders” would bond like brothers over their mutual love for elephants, nobody saw that (like oil and heat) San & Sayed were a combustible mix which was certain to spark or explode. San was Burmese, Sayed was Indian. San was Christian, Sayed was Muslim. Set aside their difference in age and culture - hired to do the same job - San tried to make peace but Sayed wanted him out. Seeing the elephants as his, Sayed took them all back. Seeing it as his main income, Sayed insisted that only he be allowed to drive the elephants, meaning that San earned less than half of what he did. Seeing ‘Chang’ also as his responsibility – even though he hadn’t the skill, the time and he wasn’t hired to do so – Sayed would raise the elephant calf himself, only in secret, San secretly oversaw its rearing. Wanting to find his purpose and not cause trouble, San backed down and stayed out of Sayed’s way. Which was easy to do when they were busy working, but impossible to do when they were alone. Up a steep flight of stairs, stuck in a cramped little loft above the Tapir House, the two shared a small kitchen with a tiny table at which they never sat or ate together, a wood-burning hob on which they cooked separate meals, and in a bedroom barely 15 feet square, lay two single beds side-by-side. Barely sleeping, they struggled to get an hour’s sleep-a-night, as not only were they annoyed by the other’s snoring, but also the baboons howling, lions roaring and through two pokey windows, drunks would stagger the Outer Circle, hurling abuse at the coloured men, and trying to break into the zoo. No-one had ever seen them quarrel, but Sayed had made it his mission to oust San from his life. In their dingy little room, Sayed had marked what was his, and where San could and couldn’t stand. To bring himself a little joy missing his home, San would play music, only Sayed insisted this stop. Being too passive to speak up or lash out, San never spoke of his anguish… except once, to the zoo’s stoker. Three weeks before the murder, John Maycock had seen San sleeping in the elephant house. It made sense as he loved his animals, but with none of them sick at that time, when asked why he wasn’t in his own bed, San replied “I would sooner sleep with the elephants than Sayed”. Here he found peace… …but in his own room, he found only persecution. We have only San’s word on this, but he said that seeing himself as vastly superior to this boy, Sayed, a Muslim would insist that San, a Christian, kneel at his feet and bow ten times before him, as if this opinionated elephant driver was a minor celebrity. By the end of August 1928, life for San Dwe had become unbearable… …and then, tragedy struck. On Thursday 23rd August 1928, across the world, almost every newspaper ran with the headline that following its return to its native Burma, the albino elephant Pawah had died, aged just 10-years-old. Having spent years raising this sacred elephant which many Burmese considered a deity, San was left broken man, lost and distraught. Gripped with immense guilt, once again, the Buddhist monks warning swept over him that a curse would befall anyone who removed the sacred one from its homeland. San Dwe would never fully admit to having murdered Sayed Ali, but it was believed that it was with this news that Sayed had taunted him. San was not a violent man, but playing on his grief… …by the next night, something would make him snap. Friday 24th August 1928 was a barmy British summer’s day, as a hot sun baked the ground. In Regent’s Park, kids squealed in the ponds, lads played football in field and giving rides upon the back of a five-ton beast sat Sayed – all majestic in his turban and robes, like the king of elephants upon his throne. At the elephant house, San was bathing ‘Chang’. Seeing the little calf splashing in the cool water always make him smile, but unable to feel anything but grief and anger, his cheeky face was ashen and cold. San had always been a Christian with strong moral beliefs. Only now, he had murder on his mind. With Chang clean, fed and ready for bed, San kissed his baby elephant, either saying goodnight or goodbye. At 5pm, Herbert Moss, a labourer working in the yard beside the Tapir House stored his tools in the stoke hole “I had a good mind to lock them away, but I decided not to, I thought they would be safe”. At 7:50pm, San was seen by Harold Ward, a zoo keeper passing that same spot. No-one saw San take the tools, but by the morning, a sledgehammer and a pickaxe would be found drenched in blood. At 9pm, Sayed had a cup of tea in the canteen and returned to his home at the Tapir House. Giving an eye-witness statement to the police, San would state: “I lay reading till about half past ten when Sayed put out the light and stood at the window. He said ‘come and look, look, English, one by one’. There was men standing by the fence under our window. He said they were like animals. (Insert drunks, glass smashing “go home blackie”, “bog off darky”). Sayed told them to leave, an Englishman shouted back “shut up you black man, shut up”. After this talk, I went to sleep. Sayed was not in bed”. San would stick to his alibi throughout the trial, only the evidence was against him. Both stokers in that neck of the zoo heard nothing that night – no shouts, no screams, no noise – the zoo was calm. Even Douglas Stewart who was exercising a wolf said the wolf detected no-one, which it would have. According to San “I lay on the bed reading a book. Sayed locked the door at the top of the stairs. He always did so when he came in after me”. And with the day over, the two men quietly went to sleep. Awoken about midnight, San Dwe would not sleep for very long, and yet Sayed Ali would sleep forever. (Breaking door, smashing, noise). Smashing open the stairway door, San: “I was awakened by a light on the bed. Sayid said ‘who are you, what do you want?’. I roll off the bed underneath. I heard Sayid’s noise very big, then a cry”, as Sayed was bludgeoned in his bed with the thick steel of workman’s tools. San: “I took some of my blankets and jumped out of my window”. Sliding down a banked tiled roof and landing in a priest’s hedge behind a six-foot railing, he was barely a few feet from the Outer Circle. “I thought I would call out, but I cannot breathe. I cannot run. I creep, I call out and a policeman come”. Passing by, PC’s Evans and Bussey raced to his aid. (Bushes rustling). PC: “You? In the bushes. Identity yourself", San: “I am San Dwe, elephant keeper”. The little man was clearly petrified, dressed in just his pyjamas, he had cuts to his feet, gashes to his hands, and with foam frothing at his mouth he muttered incoherently – “don’t let them kill me”. PC: “Christ! What happened to you?”, San: “Four men, they try to kill me”. (Siren passes). PC: “What about your mate?”, San: “I think he is dead”. Alerted by the two Constables rattling the gate and ringing the bell, the zoo’s Assistant Superintendent Charles Hicks who lived on-site let them in, as they cautiously escorted San back to the Tapir House. And being unable to walk unaided, as he kept passing out, PC Evans had to carry San in his arms. Something horrific had truly taken place… …only the crime scene didn’t make any sense. As Detectives Askew, Henstridge and Oxland arrived at the zoo, they were unable to speak to a single witness who had heard a scuffle or scream, and oddly, the animals weren’t restless or agitated. As they ascended the thin wooden stairwell, the first thing they noticed was an absence of light, as above their heads an electric light should have illuminated the way, only the bulb was missing. Shining a torch through the darkness to guide the way, at the top of the stairs, entry had clearly been made by bashing the bloodstained door wide open with a heavy tool, possibly a sledgehammer. Only, with both men having been awoken in their sleep by two torches shining in their eyes, why didn’t they hear the door being broken, and how did the blood from inside the room, end up outside of the door? Inside, the small dark room was in chaos. Only it didn’t look like the chaos of anger, it looked staged. A washing line of clothes was snapped, the bed was slightly askew and a window was open; only having supposedly fled in panic, San had the presence of mind to take two blankets, a scarf and his door keys. Moments after his murder, the padlock to Sayed’s green trunk had been smashed and the contents scattered. Only his life savings; £50 in notes and a savings book of £60 (roughly £7000 today) was left. Examining the scene, the police could identify no other fingerprints except for Sayed and San’s. Both electric bulbs were spotted in the hedge, smashed, where he had fallen. A pick-axe and sledgehammer was left on Sayed’s bed. And although he had fled, the hands of San Dwe were dripping with blood. Sayed’s still warm body was found in his bed. Lying on his left-hand-side, with his bed-sheets up to his waist and no defensive wounds to his hands, it was clear that when he was attacked, he was asleep. With the walls spattered and his bed saturated with blood, as the right-hand-side of his head had been battered-in with the sledgehammer – being still sticky with matted hair –his skull had caved in and all that remained was a gaping wound between his right ear and eye, which protruded at odd angles. With at least eight hard swings, considerable force had unleashed three fast blows to his head, four to his chest and one to the right arm, and - although it was hard to see among the swelling mass of red - three deep puncture wounds were found to his torso, having been made with a pick-axe. Sayed Ali was taken to Hampstead General Hospital but he was declared dead on arrival. (End) Committed to the psychiatric ward of St Pancras hospital, San was hysterical and had to be restrained, ranting “a white man came into my room, he called Sayed a bloody bugger, and hit him with a pickaxe”, sticking to his alibi – as full of holes as it was – that they had been attacked by robbers or racists. The next day, at Albany police station, he gave a statement admitting “I know Sayed is dead, everyone will say I kill him” and “if you ask me if I like Sayed, I say ‘no, I don’t like him’”. And yet, he would say nothing about the abuse and the bullying he had endured before and following the death of PaWah. On 27th November 1928, at The Old Bailey, 22-year-old San Dwe pleaded not guilty to murder. As was his legal right, he gave no evidence to back-up his alibi that they had been beaten and robbed by unknown assailants, and – although many character witnesses described him as “a good peaceful man” - he gave no testimony as to how Sayed had tormented him to the point where he had snapped. On 28th November, having retired for twenty minutes, he was found guilty and sentenced to death. In a one-sided trial, the jury would never be given the option to find him guilty of murder by diminished responsibility or manslaughter owing to mitigating circumstance. This was little more than a cowardly attack on a defenceless man in his sleep, by a foreigner with brown skin who spoke a strange language. To many, Pawah was simply a celebrity elephant, a freak of nature and a spectacle of wonder. But to San Dwe, this a sacred albino elephant was as rare as angel’s breath and as precious as God’s word. As the crown jewel of his native country, this elephant (who he had loved) was his responsibility, and having ignored the monk’s warning of a curse upon those who remove it from its homeland, now it was dead… and his fault. San was a man in grief, but to the jury, he was a man with blood on his hands. On Saturday 15th December 1928, San appealed his sentence, he confessed that his alibi was false, he admitted to being bullied, and with the judges agreeing that this was a case of religious persecution by a Muslim upon a Christian, King George Vth commuted his death sentence to life in prison. Having served his sentence, San Dwe returned to Burma and the job he loved as an elephant trainer. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at British Podcast Awards, The Telegraph's Top Five True-Crime Podcasts, The Guardian and TalkRadio's Podcast of the Week, Podcast Magazine's Hot 50 and iTunes Top 25. Subscribe via iTunes, Spotify, Acast, Stitcher and all podcast platforms.
St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove as it looks today
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 ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY-ONE:
At 7 St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove once lived William Reason, his brother-in-law Daniel Hanrahan and his 35-year-old niece called Gladys, who everyone knew as Renee. Everyone loved Renee; she was sweet, petite and polite. On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at 10:30pm, the body of Renee was found in Regent’s Park, three miles east. She had been gagged, strangled and beaten. What happened to Renee? What was she doing in Regent’s Park after dark? Who did she meet and why? And what does this street and the location of her uncles’ off-licence on St Ervan’s Road have to do with her death?
CLICK HERE to download the Murder Mile podcast via iTunes and to receive the latest episodes, click "subscribe". You can listen to it by clicking PLAY on the embedded media player below.
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 is marked with a black raindrop near the words Paddington. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below.
MEPO 3/2856 - Unsolved murder of Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan at Regents Park, 1947 Oct 1 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258314
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on St Ervans Road in Westbourne Park, W10; two streets north of the Landor House murders, two streets east of the cinema where Reg Christie was once a projectionist, and a short walk from the last tragic moments in the sad life of Lena Cunningham - coming soon to Murder Mile. The original buildings on the eastern edge of St Ervan’s Road were demolished in the 1960s to make way for the A40 flyover, a delightful concrete monstrosity which blots the horizon with a grey sunset of hazy smog, a bird song of roaring trucks and a hooty jam of window lickers heading to a job they hate. In the pursuit of progress, the off-license at 7 St Ervans Road was erased; taking with it the home of William Reason, Daniel Hanrahan, his daughter Renee and the tragedy which befell this loving family. Her home was three miles west of where her body was found; no-one knew how she got there, where she had been and – more importantly – why anyone would murder someone so shy, kind and beloved? Believing this lone girl must have been attacked in a dark park by a random stranger, the residents of St Ervans Road were left in shock. And yet, a greater shock was yet to come. As this was a murder as ordinary as any other, and the street wasn’t just where she lived, but also where her killer called home. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 171: The Girl with a Smile for Everyone – Part Two. A smile can do many things; it can light up a room, soothe a mood and endear us to a person. But a smile isn’t an honest expression, it can exude happiness, whilst hiding truth, pain and fear. Wednesday 1st October 1947 at 10:30pm, at Cumberland Green on the eastern edge of Regent’s Park, Detective Inspector Jamieson and Superintendent Beveridge assessed this unusual crime-scene. The park was dark and empty, as it had been barely an hour earlier when Renee had been murdered. With the only witnesses being to her discovery, the detectives could only speculate that she had been beaten, strangled and gagged elsewhere, possibly transported by car, and her body dumped. But why here? Why not a canal, a drain, a bush or a bin? Why pick an open expanse of grass in a public park with no obstructions to disguise this despicable deed? Why commit such a heinous crime, only to lay her down with such reverence; her clothes neat, her limbs straight and her handbag like a pillow. With no robbery, no rape and no signs of a struggle, it was clear that her killer was someone who loved her intensely and hated her as fiercely. This was someone that she knew, loved and trusted. As a shy girl with good morals and a limited social circle, the prime suspects would be limited to just a few Suspect 1: William Reason, a widower known as Uncle Willy who for the last twenty years had given a home, love and safety to the niece he treated like his own child. Broken by the news of her death, he cancelled his 65th birthday, closed his shop and lost in his tears, he would never recover from the loss. Suspect 2: Daniel Hanrahan, Renee’s widowed father who had fought in court to get custody of her, who had threatened to tear her killer to pieces and like Willy became a shell of himself after her death. In Renee’s throat, an old torn hanky had been used to gag her. It was stitched with the laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. And although the hanky was his, his alibi was solid and his grief genuine. Suspect 3: James Locke, the yard hand at United Dairies who dated Renee, took her to Margate on his motorbike and made-up a foursome with Dorothy and Gedge. Police discounted him as a suspect as he was seen at the social club in Wembley from the time she went missing until after she was found. Police would examine the lives of everyone who knew Renee, whether family, friends, colleagues and acquaintances. With no motive, everyone would be ruled out, which left the police with one suspect; her friend, her neighbour and the man she once saw as a close family friend – Albert Edward Butler. Married for 24 years and having ran a grocery for 17, Bert epitomised the perfect neighbour to Daniel, Willy & Renee. Being a friend during the blitz and when Willy’s wife died, he supported them, he aided them in the shop, he drove them in his black Ford saloon on trips to Ascot and Brighton. Every night he drank tea, chatted and played dominoes in their back room, and then he helped Renee wash up. On the surface, he seemed like a second uncle to Renee… …but underneath, Bert was bubbling with danger. Thursday 2nd October 1947, at 8:30am, as a ravenous press swarmed St Ervans Road looking to get the scoop, a reporter who was unaware of which house was Uncle Willy’s blurted out the horror. To his wife Gladys, Bert said “something terrible has happened, Renee has been murdered” and having gone next door to support Daniel & Willy who stood in pale shock – without a prompt – he told them both “I had a drink with her, yesterday lunchtime at the Golden Cross” – a detail they hadn’t asked for and (as Daniel would state) “he related the whole of his movements from lunch-time till Renee was found”. Bert was an unusual man, friendly but a little direct. Being 49 years old, 5 foot 10 and thinly-built with square shoulders, he resembled any other hard-working man of the day. Only burdened by sharp eyes and a bald head – most strikingly – he had a stern angular face which didn’t flinch when he was furious. Depending on who you were, there were two sides to Bert; the sweet uncle and the imposing bully. His wife Gladys never spoke ill of him; they worked and lived together, and yet, sleeping in separate beds, she rarely joined him next-door for dominoes, and would state “some evenings, he goes out for long walks by himself. I do not as a rule know where he goes, unless he happens to mention it”. Every night, in the back-room of number 7, the routine was the same; Bert would arrive at 9pm, they’d have a snack, a chat, a game of dominoes, he would help Renee wash-up, and would leave by midnight, Daniel would state “he often helped her in the scullery, and in doing so, they were alone together”. Nothing sinister was thought of this as Bert was a family friend. Uncle Willy would state “he was so regular with his visits I thought it strange when he didn’t come” - as he wouldn’t on the night she died. Nine months earlier, while washing up next to the woman - a foot shorter, half his weight and fifteen years his younger - Bert accidentally nicked his finger on a knife. It was just a small cut, so to stem the flow, Daniel gave him an old torn hanky, stitched with the laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. Thinking nothing of it, Bert kept the hanky and Daniel forgot all about it… …only months later, Bert would use it to choke her screams and to end her life. The relationship between Renee & Bert seemed to be that of a kindly uncle and his smiling niece, some had queried if it was morally right, but nobody saw it as other than the kindness of a family friend. They got on well, they chatted, he helped her with the stock-check in the cellars of both shops, and – being so shy – as he did with Willy & Daniel, he drove Renee to Ascot Races… but this time, by herself. To Bert “she was a girl with a smile for everyone”. Only her smile would hide the pain of a girl who was leched over by a creepy uncle; a pest who was had admitted he was attracted to her, who had expressed his love for her and – in whispers from the scullery – that he wanted to have sex with her. Renee never wanted to burden her father or uncle with her pain… …so, she never said a word to them about Bert. Desperate to be near Renee, Bert drove her to work every Monday, and although he lived three miles west, he rented a garage for his car in Manchester Mews - right behind the dairy where she worked. As a frequent visitor to her home, Bert would later admit to the police “I was attracted to Renee, but for nothing more than being a good friend. I have been in her bedroom often, but only to do odd jobs”. Six months earlier, Daniel came back from a night-shift and found himself locked out of the house. As a pal, hearing his plea, Bert helped him out, and - wearing just his pyjamas - Bert climbed through the back window as Renee slept and entered their home. During his police interview, Bert would tell the detectives: “I have never been in the house during the night unknown to the members of the family”. Working at the dairy, Renee felt safe. But at home, she didn’t. One month before her death, she had confided to two friends that she was fed-up with him chasing her, and that she was scared, saying “he might do things if I refuse to have anything to do with him”. With no way to escape and not wishing to upset anyone, she told no-one else about this family friend. Only, the less Renee saw him, the more Bert’s love would grow from attraction to obsession. As a quiet girl with a small but trusted circle of friends, every Wednesday she went with her colleagues to the dairy’s social club at the sports ground in Wembley; to drink, to chat, to watch the footie and to dance. But across the August of 1947, Bert had followed her from her home at St Ervans Road, to Westbourne Park station, onto the train at Baker Street station and all the way to the sports ground. On Wednesday 27th August, six weeks before her death, at the social club, Dorothy & Gedge saw Renee in an unheard heated exchange with a bald stern-faced man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby hat. The next day, at work, Renee confided to a friend: “Butler had a terrible temper because I would not go out with him. He said ‘it was a good job I did not stay last night, or I should have done you in”. With obsession turning to stalking and threats, she looked distressed, but masked it with a smile. On Sunday 31st August, the foursome – Dorothy, Renee, Gedge and Jimmy - headed to Margate. It was an escape from her stresses and she had a wonderful time, but having been driven back home on the back of Jimmy’s motorbike, from behind the twitching curtains next door, Bert was jealously watching. On Wednesday 24th September, one week before her death, having followed her again to the sports ground, Renee asked him to leave, but he wouldn’t. She told him “It’s no use you waiting here, I shall be going home on the bike” – Jimmy’s bike – only Bert sternly replied “if I see you on it, I shall cut you off’”. Which was why so many people found it strange to see Bert at Renee’s funeral. In their eyes, the two were no longer friends, but at her service, Bert stood beside Daniel & Willy, crying like a relative. To keep up the pretence that everything was fine, Renee plastered on a smile. On the night of Tuesday 30th September, all four sat together chatting about the plans for Uncle Willy’s 65th birthday… …only the party would never happen, as by Bert’s hand, Renee would be dead. Wednesday 1st October 1947 began like any other day for Renee. At 8am, she made breakfast, she did the cleaning and helped out in the shop. At 12pm, she left, having a few errands to run for Uncle Willy. Witnessed by his wife, Bert made the spontaneous decision “I think I will have a walk… the air will do me good”. He popped on a fawn raincoat, a brown trilby, he headed into Ladbroke Grove, and what followed was an alibi that he would rigidly stick to throughout the duration of the coroner’s inquest. “The last time I saw Renee… I met her by chance in Portabello Road”. Seen waiting for her outside of Barclays Bank, “I asked her to have a drink with me… we went to the Golden Cross pub; Renee had two gin and limes and I had two pints of beer”. Being a thin man with a stern face and a tiny lady with frizzy hair, three people saw this easily recognisable twosome sitting in the saloon bar talking quietly. At 1pm, “Renee left me, she was going to Woolworths to buy a birthday card”, and he re-iterated to the police, “I have never been to the sports ground in Wembley… I was not near Regent’s Park that night and I am empathic that I left Miss Hanrahan at round 1pm and that I never saw her afterwards”. At 2pm, Renee and Uncle Willy had sausages, mash and peas, with peaches and custard for pudding. Bert’s wife had expected him back for lunch as usual: “however he did not return, but I did not worry”. It was then - as would happen to Renee - that for some reason, his routine would change. “I had gone on the impulse of the moment as I was at a bit of a loose end”. After the pub “I took the train to Brighton. The return fare was 15s 3d. I arrived at about 3:45pm” – the details of which he would have known having visited this seaside town with Renee, Daniel & Willy just two weeks before. “I walked to the sea front, sat down on the beach near the Palace Pier. I fell asleep and I did not wake up until 6pm. I then went to a snack bar with white tiled walls, I can’t remember the name, I had a cup of tea and a sandwich, and then I went to the station”. When asked if anyone could corroborate his movements, he would state “I spoke to no-one who can verify my story that I was in Brighton…”. Arriving back at Brighton station, “I got the 7:14pm train and arrived in Victoria at exactly 8:30pm”. He could provide no tickets to prove this journey, and there were no pebbles in his shoes or clothes. Being back in the city, with his shop shut and time to kill, he could have gone anywhere - a cinema, a theatre or a restaurant – instead “I got a No 11 bus to World’s End in Chelsea and had a walk around” as he had seen a property he liked and dusk seemed like the perfect time to go house-hunting. At the end of which time, “I went by No 31 bus to Great Western Road”, a road running just shy of his home. At around the time that it was believed Renee had been murdered, three miles west of Regent’s Park “I entered the Metropolitan pub at 9:45pm. I spoke to a young lady”, later identified as Rose Deveraux, “I stayed with Rose and her friend till closing. I then stood outside talking to them and I left to go home at 10:40pm”. Police tracked down Rose and her friend, but their accounts proved unreliable. According to his statement, Bert headed down Tavistock Crescent to St Ervans Road, “I intended to go into Willy’s” for a cup of tea and a game of dominoes in the backroom “but did not get back in time”, meaning half-an-hour after the detectives had arrived at the crime-scene, he had returned home. His wife Gladys would state “I was sat in the backroom listening to the wireless, it was 10:45pm, my husband came in. He said ‘hello dear’…” and – without a prompt – volunteered his movements for the day; the train, the beach, the sleep. “He poured himself a Guinness. He seemed his usual self. I did not talk with him much as I was tired. I left him and went to bed. He came up about 20 minutes later”. The alibi provided by Albert Butler would put him fifty-four miles south of London at the time when Renee was last seen alive, and three miles west of Regent’s Park during the hour when she was murdered. During the inquest, the coroner would ask “If anyone were to say they had seen you in London that afternoon, would they be wrong?”. Bert would reply “yes sir, they are mistaken”. And when asked “did you have anything to do with the death of Miss Hanrahan, Bert would reply “no sir, I did not”. That was Bert’s alibi, and as vague as his story was, he stuck to it throughout the inquest… …only, when the police dug deeper, other witnesses told a different story. At 5pm, Renee went to Smith’s at 63 Tavistock Crescent to buy cigarettes for her uncle as served by Mrs Underwood. Stating that Renee looked flustered, she was seen in a heated exchange across the road with a man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby. Although, she could not positively identify if this was Bert Butler – a neighbour and grocer who had lived one street away for the last two decades. At 5:30pm, Isabella Greenwood, an assistant who often worked for Bert & Willy said she had seen him standing behind the counter of his grocers alongside his wife, a sighting confirmed by regular customer Lillian Fudge. So, either his wife was badly mistaken, or she had changed her story to protect him? Both of these sightings were debated in court, but they could not be verified as conclusive proof. At 5:55pm, being the last time Renee was seen alive by a loved-one, she left 7 St Ervans Road with her plans for the night still undecided. She was dressed to go out, she had asked about films at the cinema and she had money in her purse. But for some reason she didn’t go to the sports ground in Wembley. As confirmed by a ticket found in her purse, the serial numbers confirmed that she had purchased a return ticket to Baker Street at Westbourne Park tube station between 6 and 7pm, as issued by ticket inspector Arthur Deadman, who knew Renee and remembered that she was alone. When discovered, it was found that her ticket had not been clipped, meaning that she had never boarded the train. Between the time she entered the station to the moment her body was found, Renee seemed to have vanished without a trace. No-one who knew her had seen her… but what about those who didn’t? Two days after her murder, Police issued her photo in the local newspapers alongside a description of this woman who was truly unique – 35 years old, four foot eleven, seven and a half stone, with pale skin, grey eyes, lips like a toffee apple and a sweet face topped with brown frizzy hair like candy floss. She was dressed in a light blue frock, a navy-blue coat, black shoes and brown leather handbag. Five hours were missing from her life, but slowly, even strangers began to recognise her. Three people came forward with three possible sightings of Renee. Between 7:50 and 8:20pm, Frances McLoughlin, barmaid of the Prince of Wales pub on Harrow Road, a short walk from Westbourne Park tube station saw Renee (who she knew) and Bert (who she didn’t) enter the pub. Her statement was back-up by Theresa Grimes, a customer who knew neither but said “they were easy to recognise”. They looked odd together; one tall, one short, one bald, one frizzy. Asked in court, Bert would state “I have not been to the Prince of Wales in over twelve months”. When asked by the coroner, if she recognised the man, although Bert was sat in the witness box, the barmaid said she could not. It later transpired that she had received an anonymous letter on the 15th October which read “To Mrs McLoughlin. We strongly advise you to keep your nose out of the Gladys Hanrahan case or perhaps you will find yourself in the same place as her” - the sender was never identified. At 8:55pm, just south of Regent’s Park, Lydia Malcolm saw a woman believed to be Renee and a man in a fawn raincoat and a brown trilby hat walking towards the Laurie Arms at 32 Crawford Place, W1. Bert would state “I was never there on that day or any other”, even though it was a few streets from the dairy where Renee worked and the rented garage in Manchester Mews where his car was parked. In Bert’s defence, the witnesses may have been mistaken; it might have been another couple, date or place, or maybe – having read about it in the paper – they made the whole thing up? As although the timeline put Renee & Bert near Regent’s Park at the time she was murdered, it may have been untrue. It was possible… but then there was this. At 9:10pm, one hour before her body was found, a postman called Francis Carter was walking along Chiltern Street, just south of Baker Street and the border of Regent’s Park. Heading home, he passed Portman Mansions; two long lines of seven-storey red-bricked buildings on either side of a quiet road. “A couple were walking in front of me. They stopped. I saw the man grab hold of the girl by the lapel and shake her, he then pushed her in the face”. Not knowing if this was a harmless bit of fun or a fight, “I followed them because I thought there was going to be trouble”, but he lost them at the lights. He described the woman as “about five feet tall, fragile build, frizzy hair and a blue coat”. Shown her body hours before her funeral, the postman positively identified Renee as the girl he saw. In court, he would point to the man he saw being “5 foot 10, late 40s, in fawn mac and a Trilby hat” as Bert. This sighting may seem a little spurious and maybe unconnected, as at no point did anyone see Bert kill Renee… but it does reveal two pieces of possible evidence that the police never released; where they thought that Renee had been murdered, or how her body had been dumped in Regent’s Park. Chiltern Street is a six-minute walk from Manchester Mews where Bert’s car was parked. If he offered Renee a lift home, maybe it was in that dark secluded garage where he beat, strangled and choked her, having rejected his love? Maybe, that’s where he placed her body in the boot? Maybe from here he drove to the Outer Circle on Regent’s Park and dumped her in Cumberland Green? And although this is only hypothetical, maybe it was him who the Police saw chain-smoking in a black Ford saloon, as he sat watching the detectives examine a strange body in an unusual crime-scene? (End) Albert Butler gave three statements to the Police in which he stuck to his story about being in Brighton. He denied being in Regent’s Park, Baker Street or Wembley, owing or using the handkerchief or driving his car that day. When asked why anyone would want her murdered, he blamed it on a fictional affair he said she had with a cousin and a yard hand at the dairy she was “sweet on” who rode a motorbike. An inquest was held at St Pancras Coroner’s Court before Mr Bentley Purchase. Given the gravity of the offence, Albert Butler was bound-over and told not to say anything which would implicate him. During the inquest, Bert was grilled hard by the prosecution on details in his alibi he should have known, only he repeatedly said “I don’t know”. For the detectives, Bert was their number one suspect; he had motive, purpose and means, and being unable to provide a single witness or piece of evidence to back up his story, everything was against him. If escalated to a criminal court, he risked a death sentence. Only the prosecution’s case had holes. Summing up, the coroner would state “there is no evidence that Butler, putting the worst case against him, is the person who murdered her. Even if the jury were to accept the evidence that he had not gone to Brighton, that is a very different thing from having any evidence that he was with the girl in Regents Park. That is the unsatisfactory feature of this case”. On 3rd December 1947, having deliberated for ten minutes, the jury returned with an open verdict that Renee had been “murdered by person or persons unknown”. And with that, Albert Butler walked free, he returned to St Ervans Road and continued his life living next-door to Renee’s grieving family. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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Cumberland Green in Regent's Park, the exact location where Renee's body was found
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 ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTY: On the eastern edge of Regent’s Park is Cumberland Green on the corner of Chester Road and the Outer Circle. It’s a non-descript expanse of grass with several intersecting paths and few trees.
On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at roughly 10:30pm, the body of a woman was discovered here. Her name was Gladys Hanrahan, also known as ‘Renée’, a 35-year-old book-keeper who worked in a local dairy. She was well-liked, popular and loved. She hadn’t been robbed, she hadn’t been sexually molested, there were no threats on her life, she didn’t owe money, she didn’t keep secrets, and – stranger still –her body had been posed. So, why was Gladys Hanrahan murdered and who by?
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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 is marked with a purple raindrop near the words Regent's Park (far left). To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. MEPO 3/2856 - Unsolved murder of Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan at Regents Park, 1947 Oct 1 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258314
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile Today I’m standing in Regent’s Park, NW1; two roads south and west of the first two possible murders by the Blackout Ripper, one road east of the college where Martine Vik Magnussen met a deadly friend and a short walk south of the brutal slaughter over the sacred elephant - coming soon to Murder Mile. Just north of Baker Street, Regent’s Park is one of several royal parks in London. Covering 395 acres, it has boating lakes, an open-air theatre, a zoo, and limitless space for everyone; whether a yappy little rat who soils itself every six feet like its writing its demands in a stinky Morse code, a Lycra-clad jogger whose sweaty whiff makes the flowers wilt, and an attention-seeking turd who ruins every picnic by bringing a guitar so their fragile ego can be massaged by the words “oooh, aren’t you talented”. Yawn. Cumberland Green is a wide expanse of grass on the far eastern edge of Regent’s Park, just shy of the perimeter road called the Outer Circle. Cross-crossed with a series of interconnecting paths, unlike the rest of Regent’s Park which is manicured and cultivated, Cumberland Green has no plants, no shrubs, no bushes, no pond and only a smattering of trees. It’s as if the planners simply ran out of ideas. Being flat and unincumbered by obstructions, it’s perfect for a game of cricket. But if you wanted to hide something - let’s say a dead body - this part of the park would be possibly the worst place to pick. On Wednesday 1st October 1947, at roughly 10:15pm, it was here that the body of a 35-year-old book-keeper called Gladys Hanrahan was found. Having been gagged, strangled and beaten, it was clear she had been dead for barely an hour. But what wasn’t clear was where she had died, as with the grass all wet and freshly-cut and her shoes all clean and dry, someone had carried her here. But why? My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 170: The Girl with a Smile for Everyone – Part One. It’s fair to say that everybody loved Gladys. Being a harmless little dot – barely four foot and eleven inches high and just seven and a half stone in weight – she was unmistakable and easy to spot. Known by her loved ones as Renee, she was the size of a child and as fragile as a deer. With pale skin punctuated big grey eyes, lips as red as a toffee apple and her sweet face topped with brown frizzy hair like candy floss, she was impossible not to love. Everybody said she was “a girl with a smile for everyone”. And although, when people die, the grieving often expel cherry-picked clips of a rose-tinted version of their life, in this case it was true. Renee was a truly beautiful person, inside and out. Being no bother to anyone, she was shy but without appearing rude, she was friendly without being too-familiar, and she was quiet but that was her way. She was truly lovely, as inside that tiny body would beat a big heart with enough love for everyone. Which is why it’s so hard to believe that anyone would hate Renee so much they would murder her… …but they would. Gladys Margaret Irene Hanrahan was born on the 3rd August 1912 in Marylebone, barely a few streets from where she would die. As the youngest of two, where-as her older brother was given the name Daniel after her father, with Gladys named after her mother, it’s no surprise that she preferred to be called Renee, as her birth name only reminded her of the mother she would have chosen to forget. Shortly after her birth, Daniel & Gladys separated. With mum having taken the girl and dad taking the boy, although this split fragmented the family, her brother got the better end of the deal. He only earned a modest wage as a night-porter and could never afford a place of his own, but Daniel was a good man, he was solid, honest and loving. Where-as Gladys was a drinker who drank till she was sick. Witnessing the neglect that Renee was subjected to, Daniel fought to get full custody of his children and won. In 1919, when she was only seven, Renee’s mother died. It was a tragedy but also a blessing, as for the rest of her life Renee would never be much of a drinker - a bottle of Guinness a night at best. For Daniel, providing stability for his family was vital. Having moved into his parent’s house at 27 Park Crescent Mews, just south of Regent’s Park, three generations lived side-by-side in supportive bliss. Living alongside his sister and her husband, William Reason, although they were not blood relations, Daniel & William were as close as any brothers. With no children of his own, Uncle Willy treated Renee like she was his own daughter. Since her birth, Renee had been cursed by the worst kind of mother-figure, but as she grew, she would be blessed with two fathers who would love her without question. In May 1929, Daniel and his kids moved in with Uncle Willy and his wife at 30 Northumberland Place in Westbourne Park, and having begun to bloom, Renee’s turbulent past made way for a bright future. Educated at Marylebone Grade School, Renee had an aptitude for maths. Leaving school aged 14, over the next 22 years – being loyal to her employer and hard-working – she would have only two jobs; as a book-keeper keeping tabs on the finances at Arthur’s Stores in Westbourne Grove for a decade, and – broken only by her death – 12 years at the Marylebone branch of United Dairies on Blandford Street. As her father had strived to achieve, her life was the epitome of stability… …and nothing in her life forewarned of her cruel demise. As a creature of habit, she worked six days-a-week except Sundays, taking every second Wednesday afternoon off. She hung out with a small but trusted crowd, she always told her dad or uncle where she was going, she rarely stayed out after 10:30pm, and she steered clear of any dangers or strangers. Her hobbies consisted of reading poetry and going to dances. Her one vice was that she liked to smoke. She was immaculately dressed with manicured nails and stylish clothes. And when she wasn’t working, she helped out in her Uncle Willy’s off-licence, by keeping the books and stocking the shelves. Whether it was owing to her shyness, by the age of 35, Renee had had a few boyfriends, but she hadn’t found ‘the one’. She wanted to be loved, but this lack of love in her life left a huge hole in her heart. Plagued with loneliness, even those closest to her would never know this, as batting it away with a beaming smile, she kept her feelings locked-up tight and never wanted to burden others with her pain. Outside, Renee was always smiling… …but on the inside, she was crying. On the 14th December 1938, with her brother having married, Renee and Daniel moved in with Uncle Willy and his wife into a three-storey terraced house at 7 St Ervans Road in Westbourne Grove, W10. Situated north-west of Paddington, St Ervans Road was a quiet residential street in a working-class neighbourhood comprising of two lines of identical houses, with the ground floors of a few converted into small shops. Theirs at number 7 was an off-licence and next-door at number 5 was a grocer. It was a nice place where everyone was friendly and felt safe. If you left your house, you could expect to be greeted with a “good morning”, if you hadn’t got enough cash to buy your food it would go on the slate, and if you left your door unlocked, you knew your neighbours would watch your house. Nine months after they had moved in, war was declared and the world was plunged into chaos. It was a time of fear and anxiety, but – like so many streets – the residents of St Ervans Road stuck together. Next-door at number 5 lived Mr & Mrs Butler. Married for 24 years, for the last 17 they had run a small grocery shop on their ground-floor, selling tinned stuffs, powdered goods, bread, milk and eggs. Gladys Butler was a private woman who kept-to-herself, but being a local businessman and a good pal of Uncle Willy, Albert Butler (who everyone called ‘Bert’) was a regular visitor to their shop and home. Being businesses next-door to one-another, there was never any rivalry between Willy & Bert. Instead, they helped each other out. If they needed odd-jobs done, they knew who to call. As a book-keeper, Renee did stock-taking in the cellar and kept tabs on the finances for both shops. As Bert had a car – a 14 horse-power black Ford saloon - not only did they use it to pick-up stock (saving money) but also, Bert took Daniel, Willy and Renee on trips to the races at Ascot and day-trips to the sea at Brighton. From 9pm till bed-time, every night - without fail - Bert came around for a cup of tea, a snack, a natter and a game of dominoes. Just like Uncle Willy, Bert and his wife never had any children, but he would regard Renee as one of his own. Her life was blessed, she never really had a mother, but now she had three fathers, and although she was 35 years old, to them all, Renee would always be their “little girl”. Being so shy and fragile, their love was a vital part of her life… especially when tragedy struck. As her only female role model, on the 10th October 1944, Uncle Willy’s wife died leaving Daniel without a sister and Renee without an aunt. Rallying to support each-other, Renee took on her aunt’s duties of cooking and cleaning, and Bert came over more to ensure that this quiet girl wasn’t overworked. Conscious not to burden her family, she never spoke of her worries… …but by helping her with simple things like the washing-up, it a little pressure off. By 1947, with the war firmly over, Renee had been a book-keeper at United Dairies at 75 Blandford Street in Marylebone for over 12 years. She was quiet and polite, but well-liked and punctual. She had never been promoted, but not being an ambitious person, she liked the security of a familiar routine. Every day, she caught the Circle Line tube from Westbourne Park to Baker Street, taking just half an hour door-to-door, even with her little legs. She didn’t eat out, choosing to carry sandwiches. She rarely went out in the evenings, instead she stayed in with her dad and two uncles. But once a week, she and her small group of friends headed to the dairy’s social club, at Preston Road in Wembley. Having made up a foursome with three friends from the dairy - Dorothy Brown (a 34-year-old book-keeper), Frederick Gedge (a 40-year-old milk inspector) and James Lock (a 27-year-old yard hand) – Renee had recently become a little bit smitten by James, who everyone called Jimmy. Their first date was to see a film, each time he would pick her up and drop her off on his motorbike, and as a guest in her home, the three men in her life would give this young man the once-over with a cautious eye. On the bank holiday of Sunday 31st August 1947, four weeks before her murder, the foursome headed out to the seaside town of Margate. With Dot riding pillion on Gedge’s bike and Renee on the back of Jimmy’s, with the engine roaring and the wind in her hair, it was quite a thrill for her quiet little life. For Renee, she really hoped that Jimmy would be ‘the one’… …and although she wanted to be loved, it was not to be. Giving evidence at her inquest, James told the court, “Rene and I were only working friends, and no intimacy had never taken place between us”. The evening of Tuesday 30th September 1947 was as ordinary as any other, except for one reason. The Thursday would be Uncle Willy’s 65th birthday. He didn’t want to make a big deal of it, just an invite for a few friends and neighbours for drinks and a game of cards in the back-room at 7 St Ervans Road. From the scullery, as they washed-up the dirty crockery, Willy could hear Bert whispering to Renee. He didn’t like birthday surprises, but he needn’t have worried as the party would never take place… …as by the next night, his beloved Renee would be dead. Wednesday 1st October 1947 began like any other day for Renee. Typically, being her day-off, with the summer sun gone, the sky was dull blanket of grey which lay a fine wet drizzle on the ground. At 8am, she made breakfast for Uncle Willy and herself, and a meal for her dad as he came off his night-shift. She did the cleaning, a little washing, and helped out in the shop, speaking to a handful of customers. At 12pm, with a few errands to run for Uncle Willy, Renee took the 12-minute-walk to Barclays Bank at 137 Ladbroke Grove, she picked up a few odds and ends, and – as promised – she was back by 2pm. For lunch, they had sausages, mash and peas, with peaches and custard for pudding. And at 5pm, she went to Smith’s at 63a Tavistock Crescent, buying her uncle’s cigarettes as served by Mrs Underwood. So far, her day was unremarkable… but for some reason, her routine would change. That night, she appeared tired, although typical of Renee, she never complained. Being a Wednesday, she usually went to the dairy’s social club in Wembley, and although Jimmy, Dorothy and Gedge had expected to see her there, she never turned up. That evening, before his shift, she asked her dad what films were on at the cinema, he suggested ‘Master of Bankdam’ on Edgware Road, but she never went. Ready for a night out, she dressed in a light blue frock, a navy-blue coat, black shoes and – as always – her nails were brightly painted, her make-up was neat and her hair was as frizzy as ever. In her brown leather handbag was a make-up compact, £5 in notes and a cotton hanky (stylish, colourful and clean). Around her neck she wore a sapphire and diamond pendant, which had belonged to her belated aunt. At 5:30pm, she had a cup of tea and a piece of cake with Uncle Willy, and she was her usual pleasant self. As they sat there in the back-room, having had a coughing fit, Renee asked him ‘would you like me to stop with you’, but seeing that she needed a night off, he replied ‘no, you go and enjoy yourself’. They would be one of the last words which Uncle Willy would say to Renee. She had told no-one of her worries, as she didn’t want to burden those she loved… but a dark secret was plaguing her mind. At 5:55pm, she left her home at 7 St Ervans Road for the very last time, she walked to Westbourne Park tube station and purchased a return ticket to Baker Street… only she never boarded the train. Four and a half hours of her life would vanish… …as he next time she was seen, she was dead. The night fell at 7:12pm, although with the sky a murky grey, it was hard to tell. Being dark and a few hundred feet from a dotted line of street-lights on the Outer Circle, Regent’s Park was almost empty. Occasionally, the cross-crossing paths would feature a hint of life like a dog-walker, a cyclist heading home or an amorous couple kissing, but with the gardeners having packed up for the day, it was silent. Of the witnesses who found her body, nobody saw or heard what had happened to Renee. Nothing drew their attention nor aroused their suspicion. There were no screams and no sounds to mask them. At 10:15pm, Leonard Daniels, a cable worker from Greenwich was sitting on a bench in Cumberland Green with his girlfriend Menna August, a domestic servant who worked at nearby 6 Chester Place. Having finished work, they had been to the cinema, and were sitting quietly having a chat and a smoke. They had barely been there for five minutes when a short thick-set man in his early twenties came up saying “there’s a woman laying over there, I think she’s ill?”, Leonard asked “where?”, and he pointed to just fifty feet from where they were sat. Pulling out her torch, Menna shone it upon a wide expanse of grass with no bushes or trees in any direction, and there lay a woman, seemingly fast asleep. Alerted by the commotion, Thomas Hustwayte, a toolmaker from Hackney asked “has she fainted?”, but having briefly examined her, Leonard’s words were clear “no, she is dead”. Of those four, Menna, Leonard & Thomas walked to Albany Street police station, but the thick-set man was never identified. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Inspector Jamieson and Superintendent Beveridge. It was clear upon arrival that this was not an ordinary attack on a lone woman walking through a park at night. It had some of the hallmarks, but too many elements of the scene didn’t make any sense. There was no robbery; her sapphire and diamond pendant remained round her neck, the rings were on her fingers and her brown leather handbag hadn’t been opened or disturbed. Inside was the £5. There was no sexual assault; not a single item of her clothing or underwear had been ripped, scuffed or even disarranged. Everything looked as neat and pressed as when she had left her home that night. There had been an attack; as with broken nails and blackened eyes, it was clear that this tiny lady had valiantly tried and failed to put up a brave fight in her last seconds alive, but it hadn’t happened here. Whoever had attacked her had strangled her with a hand and inserted a handkerchief so far down her throat that she choked, only that hadn’t happened here. The detectives would comment “It looked like she had been laid down and her bag used as a pillow… it was like she was positioned with reverence…”. With straight arms, legs and body, she hadn’t collapsed here, but she had been placed. Renee had been dead for nearly an hour by the time she was found, but she hadn’t set foot in Regent’s Park that night. For the police, they knew this for certain, as with air moist with drizzle and the grass freshly cut, everyone’s shoes were wet and dotted with green sticky clippings… all except Renee’s. But who had attacked her, where had they strangled her and why did they dump her body here? It made no sense. Cumberland Park was one of the few parts of Regent’s Park without obstructions. With the nearest entrance being from the Outer Circle - a ring road which loops from Baker Street to Great Portland Street – she was far enough away from the street-lights and traffic, but to get to the place where her body was laid, somebody had carried her through a gate shrouded by dark thick trees. Clearly, she had been posed and placed in the open, but why did her murderer want her to be found? Whoever it was, they had both loved and hated Renee for whatever reason, and although this attack seemed like a crime-of-passion, in the heat of the moment, her assailant had made a single mistake. Down her throat a cotton handkerchief had been forced. It wasn’t hers, as being so stylish, Renee’s were always neat, clean and colourful, matching her clothes or nails. This was old, it was torn and it was used. It was a man’s handkerchief stitched with the blue laundry mark of ‘XX/A’ and the initial ‘D’. Police searched the surrounding areas – the streets, the park and made house-to-house enquiries – but there had been no sightings of Renee since she left her home at 6pm, and no sounds of the attack. With no suspect, the police had three possible theories as to what had happened. #1 – Renee had gone for a walk in a park (three miles from her home) and was attacked by a stranger. This was less likely, as she was not the sort of woman to go walking in a dark park, at night, by herself. #2 – Chosen at random, her murder was committed by a copy-cat killer, inspired by the film ‘Wanted for Murder’ where a killer strangles a woman in a London park - which was still playing at the cinema. Or #3 – Renee had met a man, he had killed her elsewhere, and he had dumped her body in the park. This seemed the most likely theory. Within two days, the police were convinced that her killer was someone she liked, someone she possibly loved, and – more importantly – someone she trusted. (End) The next morning, unsure which was the home of Uncle Willy, a reporter entered Bert’s grocery shop. Having been a little too eager to get the scoop, they blurted out the tragic truth before the police had a chance to inform her loved one’s. And within the hour, the whole street knew that Renee was dead. Informed by a ravenous press too insensitive of her grieving family’s feelings to tread carefully with a deadline looming, when Bert went next-door, he saw the ashen faces of his pals Daniel and Willy; their eyes red with tears and their anger evident, as through choked words, the dead girl’s father barked “If I get hold of the man who did it, I would tear him to pieces”. Knowing they needed his support, Bert stayed with them until 1:50pm, as the three men who loved her stood in silence and shock. With the door locked and his 65th birthday party cancelled, Uncle Willy put a sign on the door of his off-licence, which read “owing to the sudden death of my dear niece, this shop will be closed”. On Thursday 8th October 1947, just eight days after her murder, the funeral of Gladys Hanrahan known as Renee was held. Organised by Herbert Marshall, the depot manager at United Dairies, as a mark of respect, among the cortege was a long line of milk floats which passed her home at a solum pace, and on each van lay a brightly coloured wreath which typified this good woman’s warmth and love. The church was full of mourners; family, friends, neighbours and colleagues, everyone who loved her. With not a dry eye to be seen, no-one could fathom why anyone would hate Renee, let alone how any one would want her dead? And yet, somewhere in this church, someone she knew had murdered her. Renee was known as the girl with a smile for everyone… but maybe it was one smile too many? ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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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 ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE:
On the morning of Friday 17th July 1964, Kathleen Cotter, a mother of three who lived in the top floor flat of 7 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale found 77-year-old Samuel Bragg dead in his bed. The old man had been ill for many months owing to malnutrition and advancing dementia. As was protocol, the police were called, an investigation was conducted, but his autopsy would confirm what everyone suspected, that old Samuel had died in his sleep. It’s a tragic story which happens every day, in every town… …only, a small sound heard higher up in the house would lead to a truly disturbing story which nobody suspected and would lead to the arrest of the murderer of Samuel Bragg.
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. COTTER, Timothy Noel(14): murder of Samuel BRAGG between 14 July 1964 and 18 July 1964 in Paddington, London by asphyxiation. Convicted of manslaughter (Boy smothers room mate) https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C3756486 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C5038655 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale, W9: two streets south of the arrest of Edward Walstrom-Lewis, a few hundred feet east of the frozen torso of Hannah Brown, and two roads west of the unsolved murder by a killer who claimed to be ‘the real ripper’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Nestled to the side of Little Venice, Randolph Avenue is a quiet, discrete and impressively clean road lined with an odd mix of building styles reflecting its ever-changing fortune over the centuries. Not too long ago it was full of run-down council tenements, but today, it’s mostly full of celebrities. But aside from featuring in the comedy ‘A Fish Called Wanda’, when Otto (played by Kevin Klein) side-swipes a car and shouts the immortal line “aaaaaassssshooole”, you’ll have no reason to know it. At 7 Randolph Avenue currently stands a five-storey townhouse worth £6 million. And although the loft and the white Doric columns around the door are recent additions, it looks as it did in the 1960s. Back in 1964, the front ground floor flat was the home of 77-year-old Samuel Bragg, a war-veteran who suffered with dementia and lived in squalor. The council were aware of his situation, but wanting to be left alone, there was nothing they could do. Thankfully, living in a house full of caring neighbours, when he needed help, they were always there, right up to the day that he passed away in his bed. It’s a sad story which happens every day in every town… …only, Samuel’s seemingly peaceful death would lead to his killer’s arrest. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 169: Samuel Bragg: The Miser’s Demise. Befitting a man who lived by himself, little is known about Samuel’s life. Born in 1887, Samuel Bragg was the youngest of four to Henry & Eliza Bragg of Union Street in Lambeth (South London); a working-class family with his mum a housewife and his dad a saw-dust dealer. Aged 14, he left school, becoming a building site labourer until he enlisted to fight for King & Country in the First World War, for which he was given a veteran’s pension. And that was all that was recorded about the life of Samuel Bragg. It’s as if his past had never existed and his present was coming to a close. In March 1955, aged 67, Samuel Bragg had moved into the small front-room on the ground-floor of 7 Randolph Avenue in Maida Vale; a council-run lodging with Mr Rosen, a 60-year-old bachelor living on the first floor, Mrs De Troch a 75-year-old widow on the second, and on the third, the Cotter family – comprising of mother Kathleen, father Timothy, and three children; Jean, Anthony and Timothy Junior. Concerned for his well being, the tenants always kept tabs on ‘Old Samuel’, as it was clear that he had no-one. With no wife, no kids, no friends nor siblings to visit him, Samuel was very much a loner. The sadness was that he had not always been this way. As a little guy of just five foot three inches high with a fondness for felt hats and sporting an elegant moustache, he was clearly once a bit of a dandy. But with no-one to care for and no-one to love him, Samuel became a shadow of his former self. Isolated. Lonely. Unloved. Through his twilight years, this dapper gent had morphed into a ragged sack of bones, infected with bed sores, his eyes sunken and his skin unwashed and stinking. With his days spent alone in his squalid room, wearing soiled pants and muttering to himself in a rambling mumble. As a vulnerable man with advancing dementia, the Welfare Service had tried to get him a cleaner and a carer over the years, and to coax him to move into a nursing home, but he always refused any help. Samuel lived the life of a miser; saving every penny, spending nothing and living in abject squalor. Set to the side of the front door; his single-room (being just fifteen feet square) consisted of a bed, a chair, two chests of drawers and a small hob for cooking. With just one window which was never open, the stale stench of his depressing hovel remained in semi-darkness, as he was too tight-fisted to switch on the bare bulb over his head. Being too mean to buy a rug, his calloused feet crept about on icy cold floorboards. And unwilling to waste money on coal, the soiled sheets of his bed was his only warmth. It was a room of utter sadness. There was no colour, no music and no joy. In no part of this dingy filth lay family photos, love letters or fond memories of his past - as all it contained was just the basics. And although malnutrition had made him weak, his spendthrift ways made him live on a diet of sardines and potatoes - the cheapest food he could buy – as every day his mental and physical health declined. Samuel had no-one to love him… …but there was one person who cared. On the third floor of 7 Randolph Avenue lived 40-year-old Kathleen Cotter, a busy mother of four who earned an honest crust as an office cleaner as her husband’s wage as a labourer wasn’t enough. The Cotters had lived there for twelve years, and they had known Samuel since they day he had arrived. Initially, he was liked, but as his illness progressed and the peculiarities of his dementia surfaced, some of the tenants grew distant. When they were little, Kathleen’s youngest boys (Timothy and Anthony) often popped down to see Old Samuel. He was fun, he was kind and – although tight-fisted – he always had a few pennies to spare so the kids could buy sweets. But in later years, although the promise of coins would prove a powerful lure, Tim & Tony stopped visiting, as (in their words) “the room stank”. As a mother with a big heart and lots of patience, Kathleen did what she could for Samuel; she made him hearty meals, she darned his tatty clothes and she even washed his bed-sheets as he often stayed in bed for days at a time. So rancid were his sheets that although she boil-washed them separately to eviscerate the lice, she would have loved to have burned them, only she knew he wouldn’t buy more. In 1962, Kathleen was so worried about Samuel that she called the welfare officer, he was taken to St Mary’s hospital and having remained there for five months, when he returned home, he looked well. But within weeks, being back in the squalid stench of his own festering filth, Samuel began to decline; he got thin, pale, even more confused, and – now rejecting her help - he just wanted to be left alone. On the odd occasion that he ventured outside, he could often be found wandering the streets in a pair of soiled underpants, mumbling to himself, unable to recall who he was or where he was going. Inside, his conversation was limited to just ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answers. And his hygiene was non-existent; he rarely bathed, his clothes smelled bad and he would urinate in a metal bucket which he kept beside his bed. With a communal toilet on the first floor, waking every day at 5:30am, Samuel would ascend the stairs, nab Mr Rosen’s newspaper and spend the next twenty minutes straining all manner of unpleasantness from his upset bowels. And when his symphony of rectal explosions was over, with shaky hands he would empty his bucket, often missing the bowl and slopping his feted waste over the seat and floor. It wasn’t malicious and she knew it, so without any complaint, his mess was cleaned up by Kathleen. As his illness got worse, Samuel’s paranoia turned to the only thing he had in life… his money. Samuel was a miser, he wasn’t mean, he just terrified of being robbed and left with nothing. Everyone knew that Samuel had money, as on the days when he couldn’t pick-up his pension, Kathleen would collect it for him. Being held in a tin box in the third drawer down of his chest of drawers, the tin was always fastened, the drawer was kept locked and the key was fixed to a chain on his belt. But as an old frail man - for any passing thief - he was an easy target. In January 1964, seven months before his death, Samuel had £26 stolen from his tin. With the front door left open and being too mean to fix the lock to his room, having left his trousers on his bed, the keys were used and – within seconds – the money was stolen. With the thief apprehended by Mrs Cotter, as Samuel didn’t want to report it to the police, the criminal agreed to pay back the full amount at a rate of ten shillings a week. And that’s what made the flats at 7 Randolph Avenue such a nice place to live… …as the tenants always looked out for one another. Tuesday 14th July 1964 was the last day that Samuel was seen alive. For the past three weeks he had been bed-bound, his breathing was laboured and his body was weak and pale. It took Kathleen a little off-guard to see him upright and alert; as she knelt scrubbing the steps, her mind distracted by a set of keys to the office she cleaned which had gone missing the day before. But there he was. Alongside Mrs De Troch, Kathleen asked “Mr Bragg. Are you feeling okay?”. Standing in the doorway of his unlit room, dressed in a stained pair of pyjamas, he croaked “no, no I’m not”, his face all long and drawn. “You really ought to see a doctor” Mrs De Troch begged. But just wanting to be left alone, the old man muttered “the doctors can do nothing for me”. And with that, he returned to his bed. That was the last time that anyone saw Samuel Bragg. The next day, Kathleen had given her son Timothy £1 to buy some bread and milk. Being a typical 14-year-old, his teenage years had made him selfish, so – having taken 3 shillings of her change (roughly £1 today) - he had spent it on pinball machines at The Phoenix Club, a youth club in West Hampstead. It had been fun, but knowing how hard she worked and how disappointed she’d be, at 10:30pm, as he came in (Timothy) “I heard Old Samuel moaning. I didn’t pay any attention as he was always like that. Besides, the room smelled of wee”. And worried about how he was going to apologise to his mum, Timothy passed Samuel’s room, ascended the stairs and returned to the family flat on the third floor. That was the last time that that anyone heard Samuel Bragg. On Friday 17th July, two days later, Kathleen had grown worried. Having entered the communal toilet at 7:10am, she had prepared herself to reel from the toxic horror of the old man’s ablutions. Only, it was as clean as she had left it before. Which was odd, as Samuel was a man of routine, even when ill. Kathleen would state: “I went down to his door. As it always was, it was wedged shut with a piece of paper. I listened outside and heard nothing. I pushed it and went in. The bed was behind the door. All I could see of him was his arm over the top of his chest outside the covers. His head was turned towards the wall and there was a pillow over the side of his face. I lifted it up and saw he was dead”. PC Horace Simms arrived at 8am, followed by police surgeon Dr Samuel Sanders who declared the life of 77-year-old Samuel Bragg extinct. With no signs of forced entry and nothing obviously stolen, robbery was ruled out. The room was messy, but no more than usual. And with his skin mottled with old and new bruises, this wasn’t seen as suspicious as the elderly bruise a lot easier than the young. With no signs of a struggle or assault, the most likely cause of death was an accidental suffocation as his pillow blocked his airways as he slept. His body was removed J H Kenyon, an undertaker, and taken to St Pancras Mortuary where Dr Molesworth Johnson confirmed ‘death by accidental smothering’. With no loved ones, no close friends and no known relatives left to mourn him, the body of Samuel Bragg was held at St Pancras Mortuary until someone either claimed him, or paid for a funeral. And with that, the inquest was closed… …it was nothing extraordinary, as being something which happens on most streets, in most towns, on most days, the death of Samuel Bragg was just another sad demise of old lonely miser. The tenants at 7 Randolph Avenue went back to living their regular lives, the council had the room fumigated, his few possessions were destroyed, and a new lodger moved into the ground-floor flat. Kathleen never found her missing keys, Timothy paid her back the three shillings he had taken and the toilet remained mercifully clean in the proceeding weeks, although a sadness still hung over the house. As often happens, some of the tenants spoke of how weird Samuel’s death was; of how the messiness of his room wasn’t right, of how he had bruised himself only he hadn’t left his bed, and even Kathleen would inform the police “I think Old Samuel’s been done in”. But with no evidence of foul play, the police knew (as often happens) that people often clutch at straws when they’re struggling with grief. One week later, on Wednesday 22nd July, Kathleen was enduring the typical day of a harassed mother. Being home for lunch, 14-year-old Tim & 15-year-old Tony were bickering as always. Their flat was too small for a family of six and with the boys sharing bunk-beds, they often got on each other’s nerves. With lunch finished, she was trying to wash-up the dishes when she heard her boys getting up in each other faces. “Boys, quit it” she barked, knowing they were due back at school and with Tim off on his paper-round soon enough, with the quibbling siblings split, the flat would quickly become quieter. From the front room, Tony called out “mum, he’s hiding something”, dobbing in his younger brother (as he does) like a massive swot, only Tim was adamant (Tim) “I’m not mum, I’m not hiding nothing”. Their father, a former heavy-drinker was more of a disciplinarian whose fast smacks could silence any nonsense, but their mother would be the first to admit that she was often a little too soft on her boys. Especially Tim, as although bright, he was often bullied for wearing thick glasses owing to a squint. Their bickering continued. (Tony) “mum, Tim’s hiding something in his jacket”, (Kathleen) “boys, quiet down”, (Tim) “mum, I’m not, he’s lying”, (Kathleen) “okay, enough now”, (Tony) “I can, I can heard it jangle”, (Tim) “he can’t, he’s lying”, (Tony) “prove it, gimme your jacket”, (Tim) “get off, mum?!” But it was the next sentence which stopped Kathleen in her tracks. (Tony) “he has, he’s got some keys”. A whole week she had searched for her keys, she had looked everywhere and she had asked everyone but nothing had been found, and now, furious at his little joke, the fun and games were over. With a look only a mother can give, the kind which makes all boy’s bits shrivel, she barked “Hand me back my work keys”. Timothy froze. “Hand over my keys… now”. But still he didn’t move, as the only movement was a single tear which trembled on his lid. But Kathleen was not joking “Timothy! Keys! Now!”. Unwilling to put up with his shit any more, Kathleen snatched his jacket off the chair, she reached inside his pocket, and – as was expected – with a distinctive jangle, she pulled out a set of keys. Tony grinned with glee, thinking “oooh, Tim’s gonna get it bad when dad gets up”. Only, these were not Kathleen’s keys… …and as she held them, her face became etched with horror. (Kathleen) “Timothy, what are you doing with Samuel’s keys?”. She didn’t want to think it, she daren’t, but as her youngest son began to cry, there seemed to be only one answer and it was the unthinkable. Unsure what to do, Kathleen sent him to school while she discussed it with the boy’s father. At 4:30pm, a little later than usual, he sheepishly returned, grabbed his bike, and headed out on his paper round. It was the right thing to do. It was a part-time job he had been doing since January, and earning £1 a week. 10 shillings he kept for himself, and the other 10 shillings were paid on a weekly basis to Samuel. Back then, his mother had protected him, as being a good lad, she had begged Samuel not to go to the police, and a local probation officer had arranged the repayment of the £26 which he had stolen. But this was different… …this was murder. At 7:15pm, Timothy returned home to 7 Randolph Avenue. For Kathleen, it was possibly the hardest decision that any mother would ever have to make, but she knew it was right. (Kathleen) “Tim? You know what we’ve got to do, don’t you?”, she calmly cooed. And he did. With a quivering lip, Tim cried “yes mum, I won’t hold it against you if you turn me in” and as he dressed, she said he cried bitterly. It was only a ten-minute walk down Edgware Road, but it would be the longest walk of their lives. At 8:30pm, Kathleen & Timothy Cotter arrived at Paddington Green police station, as this devoted mother and son stood quietly holding each other’s hands. Interviewed by Detective Superintendent Howlett, the DS asked the boy “your mother has told me she found Samuel Bragg’s keys in your pocket and that you told her you may be the cause of his death?”, Timothy nodded and he was cautioned. In a brief confession, he would state “I went into the room to get some money. I took his keys off his trousers and was looking through the drawers when Mr Bragg woke up. I panicked and picked up the pillow. I held it there for about 1 to 2 minutes. While I was holding the pillow, he grabbed my hand and I held his hand until he let go of mine. He was breathing when I left him. I knew he was. I saw his stomach going up and down”. Those words were Timothy’s own words, but as he was still only a child, his confession had to be counter-signed by his mum. Except for the keys, nothing else was stolen, but as he sat there, the boy’s motive became obvious. As Tim would cry “I stole three shillings of your change mum, I’m sorry, I wanted to make it up to you”. That evening, as no relative had claimed Samuel Bragg’s body, a second autopsy was conducted at St Pancras Mortuary to determine if this was in fact a case not of ‘accidental smothering’ but of murder. As before, his injuries were consistent with accidental asphyxiation. There was no sign of assault, no evidence of manual or ligature strangulation, nor any obstruction to the airways. But given that the man was old, frail and weak, the pathologist deduced that it was perfectly possible for a boy to press a pillow over the old man’s face for one to two minutes and induce unconsciousness and even death. This kind of injury would ordinarily have caused bruising to the lips, but as Samuel had taken his false teeth out, no bruising had occurred. Bruises to his right hand were found, as the confession suggested, but it could not be determined if the other bruises were caused by compression or everyday knocks. On Wednesday 22nd July 1964, following a further investigation and autopsy, in the presence of his mother, 14-year-old Timothy Cotter was charged with the murder of Samuel Bragg. (End) To many, Timothy Cotter was a harmless young boy who had made a mistake to pay back his mum. But as his story came out, the more people talked. Many knew he had stolen £26 from Samuel. But what only a handful knew was how much money the old man was worth. Had Timothy found the right key, he’d have seen that the cash tin contained an assortment of notes and coins worth £30 (£550 today), alongside some war certificates and a post office savings book with a credit of £3400 (£67000). Kathleen had seen this when she (as a good woman caring for an old man) had put Samuel’s pension in, but as she gossiped to her husband (in confidence) it was overheard by her son. Her sweet little angel had started hanging around with boys she disliked, who had become rude, distant and violent. Some may blame his friends, but others would state that Timothy had a dark side, as a few days after the murder, he relayed the facts of his burglary to a pal, with the cool calmness of a career criminal. Held at Ashford Remand Centre, Dr P D Scott conducted at psychological assessment of Timothy who stated “this boy is of superior intelligence, an IQ of 129… he displays a callousness towards his victim… and admits to stealing to feed his new tastes” – buying records, fancy clothes and going out to dances. “He has regretted the offence largely because of its implications to himself rather than because of sympathy for his victim… the only hint of violence is his fantasy in his description of how he would deal with homosexual men in cinemas” stating (“I would slam them, or stub them with cigarettes”). Tried on 8th September 1964, at the Old Bailey, he pleaded guilty to the lesser charge of manslaughter and the jury accepted this. On 15th September, 14-year-old Timothy Noel Cotter was sentenced to ten years in prison. At which, his face was emotionless. Unlike his mother, who was in floods of tears. Timothy Cotter served his sentence at Stamford House Remand Centre in Shepherd’s Bush, where he boasted to the others of having “killed a man”, and he had to be separated from the other boys. He was placed on licence before his sentence expired and his current whereabouts are unknown. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards".
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Westbound Metropolitan Line platform at King's Cross
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 ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-EIGHT: On Saturday 30th January 1965, at 10:50am, two men met for the very first time on the west bound Metropolitan Line of King’s Cross underground station. The first was a 44-year-old porter called Lawrence Gwyther, and the other was a 42-year-old homeless alcoholic called John Ritchie. Until that very moment, the two men had never met. And although their brief interaction would last just a few seconds, this incident would change both of their lives forever. And yet, their paths would only cross owing to circumstances outside of their control.
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THE LOCATION
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The location of the attempted murder is marked with a purple raindrop near the words King's Cross. To use the map, click it. If you want to see the other murder maps, access them by clicking here.
SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. RITCHIE, John: attempted murder of Lawrence GWYTHER on 30 January 1965 in King's Cross underground station, London by pushing in front of train. Convicted of attempted grievous bodily harm http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C10878991 MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing at King’s Cross station; two roads south of where Glyndwr Michael’s heroic after-life began, one road north of the Sad Faced Killer’s hotel, a few feet from where the Camden Ripper picked up sex-workers, and one road east of the man who mumbled – coming soon to Murder Mile. Below King’s Cross sits a subsurface station which connects the Piccadilly, Northern, Victoria, Circle, Bakerloo, Hammersmith & City and the Metropolitan lines. As one of the busiest tube stations in Europe, more than a hundred and fifty thousand people a day pass through this station; for some it’s part of their commute or a place of work, and for others it’s somewhere to stay dry and beg for change. King’s Cross is a haven for the homeless. Here you’ll see such sights of sadness, as a family of haggard refugees huddled in a rain-sodden doorway, a ragged mess dressed in nothing but a soiled duvet, a brutally honest alcoholic “mate, I just wanna get pissed”, and my personal favourite, the red-headed man with the imaginative ploy who once said to me “I’m saving up for a boob job, ain’t I?”. Everyone of them has a tragic tale to tell; whether a life of hardship, struggle, addiction or abuse. Some are criminals, some are heroes, some are lost, and others never want to be found. We all make assumptions in the few seconds it takes to apologetically tap our pockets or toss them a few coins to feel better about ourselves. But no-one really wants to get involved… and that’s the real problem. On Saturday 30th January 1965 at 10:50am on the westbound Metropolitan Line of King’s Cross tube station, two men from very different worlds met for the first time. One was a 44-year-old porter called Lawrence Gwyther, and the other was a 42-year-old homeless alcoholic called John Ritchie. Their interaction was brief, their words exchanged were few and their lives need never have crossed. And yet - for reasons outside of their control - it did, and changed both of their lives forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour-guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 168: The Outcast. It was a day which began for both men like any other… Lawrence Francis Gwyther was a 44-year-old bachelor who lived a good life in a small lodging at nearby 23 Granville Square. As a hard-working warehouse porter, he did his job, he paid his taxes and he kept out of trouble. He was tall and slim but sturdy, and having suffered with epilepsy since childhood, he’d been unable to enlist as a war-time soldier, but he did his duty for King & Country as a messenger. Described as “a quiet thoughtful man” who was no bother to anyone, he kept to himself but he wasn’t afraid to speak up if he felt that something wasn’t right. That morning at 10:30am, as regular as clockwork, Lawrence began his walk to work, heading one mile north to King’s Cross station. (whistle) In contrast - according to his extensive criminal record - John Ritchie was a 42-year-old ‘vagabond’ with a long history of drunkenness, theft and violent assault. Having been unable to hold down even the most menial of jobs since his teens, he hadn’t worked a day in the last seven years, and living in a hostel funded by tax-payers, he leeched off the system and squandered his benefits on booze. That morning, having already sunk two bottles of wine, a quart of cider and a hip-flask of whiskey – at least that’s what he could recall – being broke, John stumbled onto the Victoria Line at Walthamstow. Having arrogantly leaped the barrier and barked abuse at the ticket inspector, this shambling mess rode the tube for free and accosted every commuter for cash, as this scruffy ne’er-do-well staggered about wreaking of piss - as on his shoulder and sleeve, a splash of last night’s puke slowly congealed. In court, he couldn’t account for how he got there, as being in an alcoholic haze of anger and hate, he “hated these bastards” and everything about them, and yet – the irony was - he needed their money. At 10am, eye-witnesses report seeing John in a tunnel to the side of the ticket hall of King’s Cross tube station. Sitting slumped, although sloshed, he begged for change by playing his mouth organ. For the station staff, John was a habitual pest, but – momentarily lost in his music - he wasn’t being abusive. At 10:45am, Lawrence entered the main hall, he purchased a ticket, he went through the turnstile and he turned right into the tunnel towards the Metropolitan Line. A few feet behind him was Eric Mueller-Ahsmann, a 40-year-old Planning Officer who would state “…my attention was drawn to a scruffy man playing the mouth organ”. Just as Lawrence would, “as I passed him, he kept playing, but held out his hand for money. I carried on by, and as we do, I said “not now, another time”, or something like that”. That was the first time that Lawrence and John had met; they didn’t speak nor interact, but the porter would have seen there was just a few pennies in the dirty outstretched hand of this pissed-up vagrant. At 10:46am, Lawrence descended the wide stone stairs, turned left onto the westbound Metropolitan Line platform, and stood near the mouth of the tunnel alongside thirty other people. Number 184, a six-car train was (add Tannoy) “about to depart Farringdon and would/will arrive in four minutes”. Eric continued: “a few minutes later, the man had made his way onto the platform. He was swaying about, I thought he was either off-his head or simple. I saw him go to two youngsters sitting on a seat”. Being schoolboys and intimidated by the rambling drunk, (Eric) “one of them gave him a penny”. But with a penny of the boy’s pocket-money not enough to buy booze, John held out his hand for more. Hugh Ferry, a 51-year-old interior decorator told the court; “another man told the mouth organ player he should not be begging”. Others would clarify what Lawrence had said “do your begging elsewhere”, followed by an afterthought of “maybe put your cap on the floor, you might be more successful?”. From the second they had first met to this final interaction, Lawrence and John’s encounter had lasted no longer than three minutes and ten words at best. They hadn’t made eye-contact, there were no raised voices, Lawrence’s words were neither abusive nor threatening, and – not wanting to cause a scene – the warehouse porter calmly moved a third of the way down the platform, away from John. (Tannoy) “The next westbound Hammersmith & City line train will be arriving in two minutes”. At 10:48am, being six hours into his shift manoeuvring the 184 from Whitechapel to Hammersmith, Albert Copeland had left Farringdon on time. Driving the six-car train at 40mph through the tunnels, although it would slow to 25mph as it approached the platform, even if the emergency brake is pulled in time, it would still take a few hundred feet for this two-hundred tonne train to come to a stop. Standing three feet from the platform edge, Lawrence was minding his own business. And to all who would witness what was about to be unleashed, it seemed as if the scruffy little vagrant was too, as his mouth-organ parped a little ditty and his filthy scratched hand reached out for change. Eric would state “…he turned to the people on the seat and said something, pointing to the man who just shrugged him off. He was making a nuisance of himself, passing remarks and appeared to be under the influence of drink. He seemed to be seeking their sympathy and carried on playing the mouth organ… then he stopped, and pointed to the man who was then standing at the edge of the platform”. To many, it looked as if John was mocking him, but (rightly so) Lawrence just ignored him. (Tannoy) “The westbound train will be arriving in one minute”. Whether what happened was fuelled by anger or stupidity - with any rational thoughts clouded by a booze-fuelled haze - as the shambling mess of a man sidled up the platform, having accosted all and sundry, he stopped behind Lawrence. Hugh would state “he came up behind him, and with his foot near his buttocks, he made a gesture as if he was going to push him. I took this to be a sort of joke”. Lawrence didn’t know this, he didn’t see it, and he didn’t feel it… but it was not a joke. (Tannoy) “Please stand back, as the train is now approaching”. At 10:50am, bang on time, as the westbound train hurtled through the pitch-dark tunnel into bright blinding light of the platform, (Eric) “the drunk man gave his buttocks a violent shove…” towards the 630-volt electrified track. “It was a heavy kick and the man lurched forward”. And although – being blessed with quick reflexes – having seen it happen, Albert had pulled the emergency brake… …but it was too late… (Albert Copeland) “…I heard him strike the train”. (Train stops… …silence… …alarm). The chance of anyone surviving being struck by a 200-tonne train at 25mph over a 630-volt track would be one-chance-in-a-million. But miracles do happen, as this was obviously not Lawrence’s day to die. Later, he would tell the court that “I felt a blow in the pit of my back, and this happened just as a train came out of the tunnel. I fell forward and managed to turn, at the same time I hit the side of the train”. Having been kicked a split-second too late, he had missed being smacked by the roaring train by inches or falling onto the track underneath the train’s wheels. Instead, the right hand side of his body hit the motorman’s cab, and having bounced off the window, Lawrence was thrown back onto the platform. Lawrence: “I don’t know what happened next, but I gathered my senses”. And as Albert brought the tube train to a standstill, he was amazed to see not only that Lawrence was alive, but still standing. The only injuries to his body were a bruise to his palm, a cut on his little finger and a ripped fingernail. Whether it was down to fate, luck or maybe just a drunk who couldn’t kick straight… …someone was watching over him. With John Ritchie attempting to flee, the train driver and two witnesses grabbed him by his sleeve and frogmarched the stinky reprobate to the Station Inspector’s office in the ticket hall. Kicking up a fuss and wreaking of whiskey, as he unleashed the foulest of language, when Lawrence told PC Dugdale “…this man tried to kill me”, John admitted “I did, and I’ll fucking do a proper job of it if I go down for this. I’ll kill the cunt. He’s not going to touch me up” - an alleged sexual assault that no-one had seen. With five eye-witnesses, John Ritchie was taken to Caledonian Road Police Station and charged with causing Actual Bodily Harm under Section 47 of the Offences Against Person Act of 1861. Tried at Clerkenwell Magistrates Court, the jury heard of his history as one of life’s wastrels. Described as a “scoundrel”, a “rogue” and a “vagabond”, John Ritchie was nothing more than a recalcitrant and a drunk. Since the age of 19, he had spent 9 years 10 months and 8 days of his 42-years in prison for a never-ending catalogue of crimes, such as; robbery, theft, burglary and assaulting three policemen. Throughout his life, repeated attempts were made to improve his behaviour - with three years spent in corrective training and six months in a psychiatric hospital - but as a remorseless drunk who flouted bail and often broke his probation, it was clear he didn’t care and was unwilling to change his ways. With the magistrate feeling that a charge of Actual Bodily Harm was a sentence too lenient given what could have happened, the case was escalated to the Old Bailey on the charge of attempted murder. (Cell door / silence). And that was it. There was nothing else to say. The evidence was water-tight, the witnesses were clear and – although drunk at the time of the attack – John Ritchie did not dispute these events. He did it. Those were his words. And he wouldn’t use an insanity plea or diminished responsibility as an excuse. The prosecution had put before the jury every reprehensible thing he had done in his life to paint him as the leech on society which (he would agree) that he was. But he also felt that unfairly this was only one side of his life-story and that there was more to him than just a criminal record. His was a history of hardship, and maybe if he appealed to a sympathetic ear, he wouldn’t go to prison for life? In a letter to the Court of Appeal, John wrote “My Lords, I have no wish to minimise the charges against me. It was a wrong and foolish act, and I am sincerely sorry. However, I feel that my case was badly defended and that the court was not informed as to my actual physical state at the time”. This was what the jury did not hear… John Ritchie was born on the 30th April 1922 in Paisley, Scotland, as the second eldest of eight siblings in a small cramped lodging where every week they struggled to make-ends-meet. When asked, John’s memory of his childhood was vague, as maybe he couldn’t recall or maybe he chose to forget? What he could remember was that his father was an angry abusive drinker who was handy with his fists. Until the age of 14, John was educated at Abercorn Public School in Paisley where he learned to read and write. As a short slightly-scrawny kid, although a chatty little fella, he got a reputation as a bit of a scrapper as the bigger bullies picked on the feisty lad at school, and then again when he got home. Whether he was abandoned or fled in fear, being barely in his teens, he would lose almost all contact with his family. As far as he knew; his siblings had scattered, his mother had died of cancer and his father was alive eleven years ago, although - by now – it was likely that he had drunk himself to death. His first job was as a newspaper boy in Glasgow, making a pittance for long hours standing in the cold and wet. Determined to earn his own money and stand on his own two feet, he slogged his guts out for two years and did himself proud. By 1938, aged 16, he was training as an apprentice car mechanic; he was learning a trade, he lived in a rented lodging, he had food in his belly and a bright future ahead. Socially he drank, as many would do to dull the edges of the daily grind, but his real joy was music. He would play his mouth organ to keep himself calm and to escape to a better place, far from his past. Life was going well for John… until the world changed everything. In August 1939, under orders to fight for King & County, 17-year-old John Ritchie was conscripted to fight as a rifleman in the Cameronian Rifles, seeing active service in the Middle East, Sicily and Italy. He was a just small frightened kid, sent off to fight, to kill, to die in a foreign land of unspeakable horrors. Images it was impossible to scrubs from his memory once the blood was etched into his brain. With no outlet for his trauma, he drank. And the more death he saw, the more he drank, until getting wasted was the only way to survive the moments when his eyes were open. Deep down he was a good lad, and (some say) decent when he was sober, but when he drank, the drink unleashed his demons. On 14th May 1943 and 4th January 1946, Private John Ritchie was court marshalled for two cases of ‘drunkenness and desertion’ and was sentenced to a total of 14 months in prison. During his desertion, he had turned to crime; being bound over for 3 years for ‘robbery with violence’, 3 months hard labour for ‘stealing cigarettes’ and 6 months for ‘burglary and theft’. Following this last conviction, he was discharged with ignominy from the Cameronian Rifles, making him ineligible for veteran’s benefits. Distanced from his family, traumatised by the war and denied the most basic of income he was owed, alcohol became his way to cope. This was his vicious circle; as the more he drank, the more he stole. With nothing of any value in his life, ‘John the Veteran’ became ‘John the Vagrant’; a shambling mess who drifted from town-to-town causing a nuisance. His crimes were minor; March 48, Marylebone, 3 months for stealing 29 shillings; September 48, Clerkenwell, 7 days for the theft of an egg-cup and gravy boat; August 49, Glasgow, 90 days for drink driving; October 49, Glasgow, 3 months for the theft of cigarettes; May 50, Bow Street, assaulting a policeman; and June 50, 6 months for drink driving. On paper, when read out to a jury, this brief passage from his lengthy criminal record makes him seem like a selfish remorseless thief. Only he wasn’t, he was an addict, and he was trying to fight it. In 1951, as he had done many times before, John had battled his demons and sobered up; from January 51 to July 52, he worked for eight months as a packer at Cowan de Groot in Holborn, and eleven months as a machine operator at Babcox & Wilcox nearby. He was sober, polite, prompt and well-liked. After a decade in the wilderness, he had finally got his life back on track… …only (of all his battles) drink was the most difficult demon to slay. In July 52, after his fourth conviction for driving while drunk, John was sentenced to 6 months at Long Grove Mental Hospital, where he would be detoxed under strict medical supervision. Every day was pain and every night he screamed, as his torturous demons refused to let his addled brain be free. But he did it and he was clean. In November 52, he found work as a handy-man at Frederick Simons in Holborn, and again got his life back on track. But as often happens, having kept his criminal record a secret (as no-one wants to hire an ex-con); he lost his job, his lodging and - gripped with depression - he fell back on booze. His life continued this way through the 1950s and into the 1960s; he was in and out of prison, on and off of jobs, and back and forth from the bottle. Some days he was clean, others he was sloshed. Some weeks he had a roof over his head, and others he slept shivering in a rain-soaked doorway. In prison, at least he was fed and dry, but regardless of his crimes, he was always a prisoner of his own body. From 53 to 58, he barely worked a few weeks or days as a packer in a factory, and being sacked from his last job as a kitchen porter in Margate, for the rest of his life he lived off benefits of £4 and 17s per week, which he squandered on drink – news which would only have rankled any tax-paying jury. On the 11th December 1964, John was released HMP Dartmoor; he had been unemployed for 7 years, a prisoner for 10, homeless for 15 and he had been battling alcoholism for almost quarter of a century. With a criminal record stretching over four pages, he was known to every pub or off-licence, constable or court, and his rap-sheet listed him as a “vagabond”, a “rogue” and a “scoundrel”. In short, he was dirt. One month after his release, John was living in a half-way-house at 99 Church Hill in Walthamstow; a depressing bedsit in a hostel crammed full of sex pests, druggies and drunks. He had no job, no roots, no friends, and with those old familiar demons calling his name, he knew that he needed help. John “As I have no wish to spend the rest of my life in prison, I tried to do something to affect a cure. I walked into St Mary’s in Paddington. The best they could do for me was to see a psychiatrist the next week. I attended” and seeing the seriousness of his sickness “I was recommended hospitalisation”. A possible cure for his illness was in sight, John “I was fixed an appointment for the 9th February 1965, and in the interval, I truly tried to do without alcohol… but the compulsion was too strong”; as it’s easier to stay sober on a ward, but almost impossible when you’re stuck in a dingy depressing bedsit. On Wednesday 27th January, he contacted the Probation Service who tried to intervene, as seeing his pain and desperation to get clean, they knew if he got back on the booze he would go back to prison. Somehow it worked. That day, John received confirmation. On Monday 1st February 1965, one week earlier, he would be committed to St Bernard’s psychiatric hospital to treat his alcoholism. This was John’s moment to kick his addiction forever… …all he had to do was to wade out the weekend without touching the booze. But that’s about as easy as telling a hungry mouse to stop nibbling a wheel of cheese. He would try, but he would fail. John: “I was arrested that night for drink and bailed when sober. I failed to appear in court. I was arrested again and fined, arrested again and bailed out. And I carried on like this in an alcoholic haze…”. On Saturday 30th January 1965 at 10:45am, as John Ritchie played his mouth organ to soothe his pain beside the westbound Metropolitan Line tube; having been drunk, tired and hungry for four days, and having sunk two bottles of wine, a quart of cider and a hip-flask of whiskey that morning alone, he had no memory of how he got there and - having fallen off the wagon – he had lost his one shot at sobriety. John was back to square one; a homeless drunk stuck in a vicious circle. And as every person passed him, no-one had any idea about his past or his struggle, as to them he was just a dirty drunk. (End) At 11:10am, having been dragged by a baying mob to the Station Inspector’s office of King’s Cross; as five witnesses spoke of how he had kicked Lawrence Gwyther into the path of a moving train, it was the drink who spoke up for John Ritchie – (Lawrence) “…this man tried to kill me”, (John) “I did, and I’ll fucking do a proper job of it if I go down for this. I’ll kill the cunt”. And with that, his fate was sealed Taken to Caledonian Road Police Station, he was charged with ABH and he was held at Brixton Prison. When his case was heard at Clerkenwell, the jury would learn of every bad deed he had done, but not the context for his drinking and his aggression. Escalated to the Old Bailey, on 11th March 1965 John Ritchie was tried on the more serious charge of ‘attempted murder’, which – if found guilty – would warrant a life behind bars. Again, his history was ignored, and he was sentenced to 5 years for ABH. Hoping to be heard by a sympathetic ear, he sent a handwritten letter to the Court of Appeal imploring “I truly state that although I was provoked into this assault, had I been of the right mind, reason would have controlled impulsive emotions, that - at the time through continual drinking, a lack of food and sleep - I was in a poor state both mentally and physically. Considering these facts my Lords, I consider the present sentence of five years is severe and I appeal for leniency. Yours. John Ritchie”. His appeal was rejected and he was sent to Wandsworth Prison. In March 1987, Lawrence Gwyther died in Hendon at the age of 67. And after his release, John Ritchie’s whereabouts remain unknown. ** LEGAL DISCLAIMER 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. 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” and nominated "one of the best true-crime podcasts at the British Podcast Awards". |
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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