Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED AND ONE:
This is Part Five of Ten of The Soho Strangler. May 1936. Three weeks after and two street south of the murder of Marie Cotton, and just two streets east of French Fifi, ‘Dutch Leah’ a third sex-worker would be found strangled in her Soho flat, on the second floor of 66 Old Compton Street. Again, there were no obvious signs of break-in, robbery or sexual assault. Again, the only entry point was a locked street door off a busy street. And again, the killer left no fingerprints, no clues to his identity and witnesses to the murder. It’s as if this maniac had attacked and vanished into thin air. With two women slaughtered in similar circumstances just streets apart, again, the police had a prime suspect, a man known to the victim who had a method and a motive. But with two murders still unsolved and with no suspects, had they caught a killer, or another scapegoat for their incompetence? With a panic rumbling across Soho, as women wondered how safe they were in their own beds, as much as the police refused to believe it, their last option was one too terrifying to consider… …that a serial-killer stalked these very streets, who the press would dub - The Soho Strangler.
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 exclamation mark to the right of the words 'Golden Square'. 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.
Murder of Leah Hines at Old Compton Street, Soho, on 9 May, 1936 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257749
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (News vendor) “Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Soho Strangler baffles Scotland Yard”. Three things made the Whitechapel Murders a media sensation overnight; two murders back-to-back, an ensuing panic and a letter which gave this mysterious blood-soaked slayer a name, ‘Jack the Ripper’. Dubbed the Soho Murders, with a third woman found strangled, Soho had become a byword for terror with his victims so globally famous only their nicknames were needed - ‘Fifi’, ‘Marie’ and now ‘Leah’. Syndicated worldwide on 13th September 1936, EveryWeek was one of many articles that fuelled the flames of panic and mystery. It read; “Like Jack the Ripper, this shadowy slayer of the girls of London’s dim by-ways strikes with an insane but deadly cunning, leaving no clues for the famous man-catchers. From the winter of 1887 to the summer of 1889, Jack the Ripper committed a series of baffling crimes. (Of those who fell prey to him) all were women… and of a dubious class, just as have been the ones who fell into the clutches of the Soho Strangler. Jack the Ripper threw such a shiver of fear over Whitechapel that women were afraid to go out at night. The same is true today of women in Soho”. With no witnesses, no clues and no concrete evidence to convict separate suspects to these identical murders - let alone a serial-strangler who stalked Soho’s seedy streets - this mystery would spawn a myth and with a third murder fuelling a panic, the press would give him a name – The Soho Strangler. Unlike the others, the murder of ‘Dutch Leah’ would mark a shift in the killer’s motive… …but by making this man into a monster, once again, the victim would be forgotten. With all three women being short slightly portly brunettes prone to sickness and depression - although Leah wasn’t French, or even Dutch as her street-name would suggest, but English – one thing would connect them all, as owing to the hardship of their upbringing, they were all desperate to be loved. Leah’s life was a fractured chaotic mess. When asked, her own mother could not remember the date of her only child’s birth, just that she was born in 1912, at East Ham Infirmary in East London. Like so many women, Constance May Hind (as her birth certificate states) had many names for many legitimate and illegitimate reasons; with three different spellings of her surname, a married name and combined with several first-names – ‘Constance’, ‘May’ and ‘Leah’ – she had eight known aliases. Lacking any role-model, her early life was devoid of stability or love, as Leah was bounced like a bag of dirt; between her mother Kathleen, an alcoholic fraudster who spent much of her upbringing behind bars; her father, Gordon Bodley, a miner who was neither there at her birth nor beyond; and – when not being raised by her exasperated grandmother, Sarah Ann, who “could do nothing for her” – Leah was placed into care, far from her home of London; first at St Faith’s House of Mercy, a convent at Lostwithiel in Cornwall, and later at The Devon House of Mercy, a children’s home in Bovey Tracey. Aged 14, being legally entitled to flee the state’s care, this broken girl from a fractured family left with no money, no plan, and – unsurprisingly - her mother would state “she was unable to ever live alone”. Between 1926 and 1930, her late teenage years, there is a gap in her past. Some say she had trained as a typist and then became a waitress, but with ‘Leah Heinz’ receiving the first of eight convictions for soliciting aged 18, by the time of her death, she had been a Soho prostitute for at least six years. Her adult life was no better, as every aspect of her existence was brief and transient; she sold sex, she drank, she accrued debts, then she fled; she met a man, she fell in love, it ended and she moved on. Like ‘French Fifi’ – who it is unknown if she ever knew, as her name was never mentioned in the case file of her murder - ‘Dutch Leah’ as she was called (a moniker giving this Londoner an air of the exotic) was well-known and well liked among her fellow sex-workers, being chatty, pleasant and supportive. As a creature of habit, she worked from 9pm to 2am, she picked-up punters behind the Palace Theatre (south of Old Compton Street, on the corner of Romilly Street and Greek Street) and she kept close ties to her trusted associates; Leah Cohen, Ruby Walker and Lily Joyce, the last people to see her alive. Like many prostitutes; her clients were either faceless strangers or nameless regulars, her arrests were as common as the violence she endured (none of which led to a conviction), she charged a flat rate, she rarely haggled over a fee, she had no issues with getting naked, and - as many men refused to use the thick rubber condoms, as supplied by Sydney Bloom – they could pay for unprotected sex, as their semen would be soaked up by the thick wads of cotton wool she regularly inserted into her vagina. In the Police report, she is described “as a common… low type of prostitute”. There was nothing about her which stood out; being just a small, plain and unremarkable woman struggling to get by in a life which had dealt her a dirty hand. In short, she was no more likely to be murdered than anyone else… …just like ‘Fifi’ and ‘Marie’. Leah’s mother would state “she always lived with some man. I don’t mean that she lived with a man who kept her, but with a ponce… there were innumerable men she lived with at one time or another”. Like many aspects of her life, her lack of steady lover may seem scandalous to 1930’s morals - but living in an era when a single woman was seen as sinful and penalised to the point where it was better to live with a man whether she loved him or not, like Marie Cotton - her happiness was not considered. Leah liked the creative types, many who were low earners and relied on her ‘immoral earnings’ to live. In 1930, around the time of her first conviction, she lived on Whitfield Street in Fitzrovia with Jim Rich, a black music-hall artiste who performed in the West End as well as touring the UK. By all accounts, they got on well and never quarrelled, but after two years, owing to obvious reasons, the couple split. In 1931, Leah met Robert Thomas Smith at a dance on Newport Street, they dated for a year and lived together in Wood Green, Harringay and Euston, with him always believing that she was a waitress. By the end of the year, they had a child, “I think it was a boy”, her mother would state, but unwilling or unable to care for him “he was adopted but I don’t know by whom. I believe this is Robert’s child”. On 29th June 1933, Robert Thomas Smith & Constance May Hind married at the Strand Registry Office, under the aliases of Robert Thomas Armstrong and May Constance Hind. With their wedding reception held at Victor’s Café at 5 Old Compton Street, he would always maintain “I don’t know for whom she was working”. But by August 1934, after just one year’s marriage, while he was in St Pancras hospital with an ulcerated throat, ”she wrote and told me she was leaving with no reason. When I came out, I made no attempt to find her” and having moved to Margate “I have not heard from her since”. Her love-life was chaotic, so it’s impossible to pin down who she was with and when in her last months alive. In December 1935, she lived with an Italian known only as Alf above Gee’s Fish Shop at 65 High Street in Bloomsbury. By January 1936, she lived with a Frenchman using the alias of George Day at 40 Greek Street in Soho. And by February 1936, she lived on New Compton Street with William ‘Billy’ Sullivan, until his arrest that month for theft and assault. But then, all of her lovers had convictions. Following her murder, the Police wouldn’t seek a serial-strangler whose sadistic spree had slain another sex-worker, or a sensational monster whose name made worldwide headlines, as – once again – their suspect was the most obvious one, like one of her criminal lovers who leeched off her earnings. The Police’s key witness and suspect was her last lover… …a part-time magician called Stanley King. Stanley Gordon King was born on the 29th July 1912 in Aldershot. With his father having died when he was just a toddler, he supported his mother as a miner, but in 1931, aged 19, he came to London to work as a hall boy, a footman, a waiter, an MC at Mac’s Dance Hall and finally as a street magician. Under the stage name of ‘Rex Gordon’, 24-year-old Stanley performed from mid-afternoon to late into the night, on every tourist street or seedy night-spot, always struggling to earn enough to pay his way. Being small and unimposing, he was an unlikely suspect to strangle his lover with his bare hands. But as Leah wasn’t overpowered with brute force, her ‘ligature strangulation’ was more likely from a man with nimble fingers, a swift slight-of-hand and an encyclopaedic knowledge of ropes, binds and knots. Dressed in black, a colour on which blood is hard to see, taken into evidence from the crime scene was his ‘Magic Bag’ – a conjurer’s kit which contained everything needed to pull off the ultimate deception; like cloths, ropes and lock-picks. Interviewed about the murder weapon found in his own flat, Stanley would state “some months ago, I had about 3 ½ yards of electrical flex… it was reddish brown. I last saw it nine weeks ago. The piece of wire shown to me is not my property. I have never seen it before”. Like the others, Stanley had criminal convictions, but they were only slight. Under the aliases of Arthur King and Archibald King, in February 1935 he was charged (but found not guilty) of stealing a car, and in June 1935, he pleaded guilty to insulting behaviour and breach of the peace by fighting in the street. On the surface, Stanley hardly seemed like a maniac, the kind of crazed killer who would unleash such horrific levels of violence against Leah, and yet – if they were connected – make the murders of Fifi and Marie look like an accident and a suicide? But then again; everybody has secrets, everyone tells lies, everyone has limits, and maybe the reason her crime-scene looked so similar, and yet different… …was that Leah’s murder was personal? On an unspecified date in April 1936, in The Caprice Club at 59 Old Compton Street, Stanley met Leah. Within the week, they had moved in together, but their affair was born out of love as much as lies. He would state “she said her parents were German… she said her name was Leah Heinz”, and hiding the fact that she was still married and had a child, her biggest lie was how she earned her money. Stanley would state "the money I earn is sufficient for myself", but as she paid the lion’s share of the rent, it made sense to hide that fact from the Police, as it was illegal to live off her immoral earnings. On 24th April 1936, they moved into two rooms on the first floor of 1 Little Pultney Street, just off Old Compton Street, an area riddled with prostitutes, pimps and brothels. After three days, she told him the truth: “she said she was going out and meeting men. I said ‘you are not bringing men here are you’ she said ‘yes’. I said ‘I will leave you unless you get another place for us to live’… she promised me that she would not bring any more men to the place whilst we were there and I continued to live with her”. Whether Stanley was oblivious, an idiot or a liar is unknown, as there was no denying what Leah did for work; she had prior convictions for soliciting, everyone on the street knew she was a prostitute, she worked 9pm to 2am, her handbag was full of condoms, she picked up men just one street away and brought them back to their flat, where (often) Stanley would find their coats or hats left behind. And yet, whether this was an alibi or ignorance, he also claimed that Leah had the only key to the door and that if he wanted access to his own flat between her ‘working hours’ of 9pm and 2am, he had to wait for her to throw the key down from the window, or sit in a café until she was back in the flat. If that seems implausible… …that’s because it probably is. On Monday 4th May 1936, five days before her murder, Leah & Stanley moved to a new lodging at 66 Old Compton Street; a few doors down from their old flat, deeper into the heart of Soho’s sex trade and rented off a landlord who knew she was a prostitute and had tried to evict her for non-payment. 66 Old Compton Street was unnervingly similar to 3-4 Archer Street and 47 Lexington Street. Set on a bustling street which thronged day and night to the cacophony of life, amid the hum of pubs and clubs, market stalls and small trades, gambling dens and secret brothels, off Shaftesbury Avenue or Charing Cross Road, a stranger could easily enter this street, unseen and unheard, and then vanish. As a very similar flat-fronted four-storey building, it was yet another almost perfect murder location. With a provisions shop called Fratelli on the ground floor, open from 9am to 6pm, the lodgings above were only accessible by a street-door, often left unlocked and open until the trades people had left. Described as dilapidated, its smattering of tenants kept to themselves and rarely saw one another. In the basement lived a bookmaker and a variety artiste who were rarely in before midnight, on the first floor Shaw the seamstress was usually gone by early evening, the third floor was unoccupied, and on the second floor lived its newest tenants – Stanley, a magician, and Leah, a supposed ‘waitress’. For a prostitute, the dark unlit stairs gave her slew of faceless punters the privacy to sneak in, get sex and then vanish like a gust of wind amidst an oblivious crowd. It was discrete, but it was also a place where tears fell unseen, cries were swallowed whole, and a scream of death would be lost amidst life. Their room was small and basic; a double bed, a dresser, a wardrobe, the lights lit by a gas meter, and several odd and sods left behind by a lazy landlord, including one of the weapons used to murder her. Barely a week later, Leah would become the third victim of The Soho Strangler… …but what made this murder so different was that where-as with ‘Fifi’ and Marie their lives had been taken by a calm and patient killer, with Leah he had lost his cool and had lashed out in raw anger. Just like the others, Leah’s final days and hours alive are unremarkable. Sunday 3rd May, Leah met Kathleen, her mother for the last time: “she told me she was living with a conjurer… he was kind to her. She seemed happy and did not complain of being afraid of any person”. Of those who knew Leah well, although open with her feelings, she never made any reference to being harassed, bullied or blackmailed; she was recently assaulted by a punter (but no more than usual); we don’t know if she had a pimp, if Stanley was her ponce or if her landlord was a ‘flat-farmer’ (part of a criminal gang who rented rooms to sex-workers at inflated prices and took a cut of her earnings); and she never spoke of white slavers, dope peddlers, sinister stalkers or a violent Jew called Mr Cohen. She was small, but having worked the sex trade for more than six years, she could handle herself well. Monday 4th May, Stanley & Leah moved their belongings into 66 Old Compton Street, including his ‘Magic Bag’. Knowing her past, Stanley would later claim he had implored: “will you promise not to bring anyone here”, meaning men, “she said yes”. As usual, they ate dinner together, “I left her about 11pm. She said she was going home… I arrived home at 3:30am and found her dressed and waiting”. Tuesday 5th May, “that evening I was at Chez Bobbie’s Club until 1:15am. (Back home) she was waiting up for me, and I asked if she would give me the key to the street door. She said ‘I need the key, if you want one you must have one cut’. I became suspicious and thought she was bringing men to the room. I said to her about my suspicions but told her I was going to leave and get a place of my own. She cried and said, ‘I don’t want you to leave’…”, they made up “I stayed with her until 3pm (the next day)”. Wednesday 6th May, Stanley arrived home a few hours earlier than usual, although it is unknown if this was due to business being light or his need to catch her out. With supposedly no key, “I arrived at 12:30am, I whistled up, she threw the keys out of the window. I let myself in and found her (waiting)“. Of course, the only witnesses who can confirm this are Stanley and Leah, one of whom is dead. Thursday 7th May, having ate a late supper, “I left her at 11pm by Tottenham Court Road police station. I expected her to go home”. Having left Chez Bobbie’s at 3:30am, “I arrived home at 3:45am and whistled up as usual. I received no reply, and after walking round, I returned to the address at 4am, and I noticed she was looking out of the window in Old Compton Street. She was fully dressed, wearing her hat. I said to her ‘where have you been till this time?’, she replied ‘are you trying to catch me?’”. He would later state she had been to the Caprice Club, a place he had forbidden her to return to: “She said ‘I have been out of somebody’s way for a couple of hours’… she went to the drawer of the dressing table and took out a Seaman’s Discharge Book…”. The seaman was never identified, his discharge book was never found, and according to Stanley, Leah never stated why it was there, and they went to bed. Friday 8th May was Leah’s last day alive. Stanley would state “I woke up at 11am and noticed a blue raincoat on top of the wardrobe. I asked her about it, she said ‘it’s always been there’. I knew this was wrong, I told her so. She said ‘Oh, well, the man that was here last night, it belongs to him and the book’, I said ‘he must have been in a hurry’”. “It was three o’clock when I left the room”, Stanley would state “I asked her if she wanted me to meet her (for supper)”, as they usually did, “she said ‘no, I’ll see you tonight’ and – according to him – “she asked me to be home definitely at 2am”. Although whether he kept that promise, we shall never know. But in Stanley’s own words “that was the last time I saw her alive”. That night there were several reliable sightings of Leah - a local sex worker who was well known-and well-liked – in and around the usual places she picked up punters, as seen by her closest friends. Leah Cohen, a fellow prostitute and her old flatmate, saw her 10:50pm on Old Compton Street. “She was alone. When I left, she was dressed in a small dark hat, a fawn coat and a blue spotted frock”. At 11:30pm, Ruby Walker saw her “at the corner Charing Cross Road… talking to ‘Ginger Joan’… she said “I haven’t been off tonight”, meaning she hadn’t had a punter, “and there is no money coming in”. The last confirmed sightings of Leah were at 12:30am; the first was by Emilio Plantino, a hall porter at The London Casino, who saw Leah walking east on the south-side of Old Compton Street with a man, and – just minutes later – Nellie Few, a local prostitute who had known Leah for six years, saw her enter the street-door of 66 Old Compton Street with a man matching that description: “about 25, 5 foot 5 inches, medium build, fresh complexion, brown hair, clean shaven, long black coat and no hat”. With no-one left in the building, except the sleeping lodgers three floors below… …what happened next was only witnessed by Leah and her killer. Stanley’s sightings are less accurate and cannot be verified by others. When questioned by the Police, he would state: “I went to Chez Bobbie’s”, one street east on Charing Cross Road, “and I stayed there until 3:30am”. Even though, according to him, Leah “had asked me to be home definitely at 2am”. At 4am, “with the street-door locked. I whistled up, but got no reply”. Later stating, “I went to Jack’s snack bar on Charing Cross Road where I had a cup of coffee”, although the owner could not confirm this, “I walked around till just before 5am”. Ringing the bell, which was unheard by any other lodger, “I again returned to the address at about 6am, but again, no reply”. Seemingly unconcerned, “I went to café in Bloomsbury”, although one was open opposite, and at 6:30am, he told a labourer called James Adams of his issue, and – after a little breakfast – this convenient witness agreed to help him. At 8:45am, with the provisions shop on the ground-floor opening up, Stanley got a second witness, Mr Fratelli to unlock the street door, and hearing Leah’s puppy whining, James broke down the door. Discovering her body, Stanley ran to the junction of Great Windmill Street and Shaftesbury Avenue, and reported to PC Davidson “Oh constable, will you come along, I think my girl has been murdered”. With his ‘Magic Bag’ back at the lodging, Stanley King was said to be visibly shaken and upset. (Out) The crime scene was unnervingly similar to the two previous killings by The Soho Strangler. With the street-door in perfect working order and the lock to the flat untampered with, except for the obvious damage, there was no sign of a break-in. Inside, there was no state of disorder; the drawers were not ransacked, and except for her black handbag – left open on the mantlepiece – with only two pennies and a small envelope for rubber sheaths, a robbery could neither be proved nor disproved. Leah hadn’t feared her killer, as lying obliquely on the bed, “with her stockings neatly rolled down to the ankles… her knickers removed… her legs widely parted… and her cotton dress pulled up to the waist leaving the pubis exposed… she had prepared herself for the purpose of sexual intercourse…”. Only, once again, there were no signs of any sexual assault, as her undressing was of her own volition. About her neck, again, the killer had fashioned a found item as “a piece of black flex was tied around her neck”. Only, it wasn’t this strangulation which would take her life - as with the scene described as ‘the work of a maniac’, his usual calmness cast aside, and having grasped a second deadlier weapon - he had unleashed an unparalleled fit of violence and anger upon her, as if Leah’s death was personal. With Dr Charles Burney and Home Office Pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury jointly confirming that she had died between 12am and 4am, they both took a anonymous opinion – “this was a murder”. The Police’s prime suspect was Stanley King, a man with a method, a motive and a tenuous alibi. But was he her killer, or – with two strikingly similar unsolved murders, across neighbouring street, over a few months, and with a third heading that way – once again, had the Police collared a very convenient scapegoat, rather than face the unthinkable, that The Soho Strangler was stalking their streets? Part Six of Ten of The Soho Strangler continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
Welcome to the Murder Mile UK True-Crime Podcast and audio guided walk of London's most infamous and often forgotten murder cases, all set within and beyond the West End.
EPISODE TWO HUNDRED:
This is Part Four of Ten of The Soho Strangler. By the morning of Friday 17th April 1936, word had spread around Soho that 43-year-old Jeanne-Marie Cotton had been murdered; strangled in her own flat, using her own scarf, with no suspects or motive. It seemed like a random unprovoked attack on a defenceless woman for no reason. It was a case which would have been forgotten, until it was connected to an unnervingly similar murder two streets south and five months earlier upon another French brunette in her early forties. Was this a coincidence?
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 exclamation mark (!) above the words 'Golden Square'. 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.
Murder of Jeanne Marie Cousins at Lexington Street, Soho, on 16 April, 1936 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257748
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: The morning of Friday 17th April 1936 was deathly still, as a damp fog hung. Drenched in sober silence, a small crowd bowed their heads, as down the staircase and through the street-door of 47 Lexington Street, two men in mournful suits carried a black wooden coffin into the back of a black waiting van. Like a rabid virus, word had quickly spread across Soho that Jeanne-Marie Cotton had been murdered; strangled in her own flat, with her own scarf, in a motiveless attack by an unknown killer. And although some of the crowd said a prayer for this quiet little lady, others only came to giggle and gorp, as keen to gossip to their pals - until more details were released - their half-baked theories would be ceaseless. Fuelling the fire, that day Marie’s murder was headline news in many national papers. Hastily recycling any salacious titbits (whether fact or false) to get the scoop, many like the Daily Mail and the Leicester Evening Mail both went with ‘Beautiful woman murdered in Soho’ – as its faster and cheaper to copy and paste from a press release, rather than to dispatch a reporter to ‘do their job’ – and having already connected a few of the dots – the Nottingham Evening Post went with ‘Second Beauty Slain in London’. The story of ‘French Fifi’ was as dead and buried as her body, but now they had a reason to remember her; ‘New Flat Riddle for Scotland Yard’, ‘Is there a link with stocking crime?’, ‘Both victims strangled and French’. Overnight, the unremarkable deaths of two forgotten women had gained notoriety, but only because their murders had sex, death, mystery, and a faceless killer who stalked in the shadows. Focused on speed rather than accuracy, the press bastardised the facts; ‘fingerprints of killer found at murder’, only they actually belonged to the first PC on the scene; ‘Police took away a bloodstained door’, which was wrong as the pool of blood about her nose hadn’t splashed nor spread; and ‘£14 found in cupboard’, which was false as according to Carlo “nothing was missing”, not even a penny. The very next day, the Evening Standard quoted Superintendent Walter Hambrook as stating: “this case cannot be associated with the ordinary class or murder”, which – in the minds of the newspapers and its readers - put the deaths of Marie Cotton and ‘French Fifi’ upon a pedestal, above any other. The problem was… he never said those words, as many details published in the press were twists on truths or all-out lies. But if you print it, it becomes fact, and the more you repeat it, it becomes proof. The death of ‘Marie Cotton’ would have been as unremarkable as it was forgotten… …and yet, as the gossip brewed, a myth about ‘a strangler in Soho’ began to stir. As the word ‘murder’ rippled with unstoppable speed about the West End, as often happens, theories as to the culprit spread and the usual bigoted band of society’s villains were blamed; like gays, Jews, foreigners, bohemians, the insane and the disabled - choosing to believe it was ‘them’ and never ‘us’. Every witness had a theory as to who had done it, but like the crime-scene, the police were methodical. Although Josephine Pouliquen would state “I feel certain she was murdered by Mr Lanza, he is a brute and often kicked Madame Cotton… as did Remo”. Carlo Lanza was seen by many reliable independent witnesses at work during the hours she died. As was Remo, his son, who found her body. As well as Dintis her lover, who Dorothy described as “a dangerous man”, his movements were accounted for. Last seen alive by her lodger, Dorothy Neri - who was having sex in her room, a few feet away, with her ‘Jewish’ boyfriend Braham Alban when Marie was murdered – neither were suspected as culprits. And as her ex-husband was dead and the mysterious ‘Mr Cohen’ could not be proven to even exist, the Police toyed with other theories, such as a chance encounter, a secret in her past, a failed burglary, or that – living on the same floor as a Soho prostitute – that her death was a case of mistaken identity. All were examined but dismissed, as the Police had a prime suspect… …someone who had a method, a motive, and a reason to kill. It’s hard to pin down who he was as he riddled his life with so many lies. To some he said he was from Yorkshire, but to others, that he was from Norfolk. He said he was an orphan, only his mum was still alive, and his dad had only just died. And although many called him ‘Jimmy’, ‘Graham’ and ‘Peter Graham’ – three aliases he was known to use to hide his crimes - his real name was James Allen Hall. Born in 1907 in Shelton, a parish 12 miles south of Norwich, his father was an Inn keeper, his mother was a housewife, he had one older sister called Dora, and – to keep the coffers coming in – a lodger. Branded as ‘unruly’ and ‘selfish’, what sparked his aggression is unknown, as although educated, he would stumble into petty thievery to fund a lifestyle of drink, fashion and sexual experimentation. On an unknown date in the late 1920s, James married May, making her Mrs May Janet Hall. How they met and why they wed is a mystery, as with misery pervading their home - for reasons of his own - he only married her to hide the truth, and drinking heavily, he often assaulted her. In 1931, May applied for a divorce, but before her solicitors could issue him with the papers, he had already fled to London. Being ‘on the run’, James worked as assistant clerk to his father at the Southgate Burial Board in North London, processing monies for the plots and gravestones of the recently bereaved. In early 1933, his father died, and by the May, he had fraudulently cashed two cheques totalling £59 (or £4500 today). As was his habit when things got hot, before he could he arrested, he fled leaving his widowed mother to fend for herself. He hunkered down in lodging houses, he hid under aliases, he racked-up debts and being booted out for misbehaviour, lewd acts and drunkenness, he always left a trail of destruction. Drink, sex, violence, and money – four words which were hardly the calling card of The Soho Strangler; a killer so calm and controlled that he never left a single witness or piece of evidence as to his identity. But then again, maybe as a fledgling killer finding his feet… …his lack of capture was as much down to luck, as it was to his cunning. In the spring of 1935, James worked as a clerk at Denard Manufacturing, a gown manufacturer at 65 Margaret Street in nearby Fitzrovia. On 3rd October 1935, having interviewed twenty applicants for an intern role – all being young slim boys - he hired 18-year-old Donald Ross, the one he fancied most. Donald would state “I wasn’t corrupted until I met Hall”, but as homosexuality was still illegal, maybe he was defending himself, protecting his reputation or laying the blame on the police’s key suspect. Having dated for three weeks – with trips to the cinema, drinks at known gay pubs and playing billiards – they began dating. Staying at James’ lodging at The Trafalgar at 37 Craven Terrace, “I agreed (to stay) and slept with him in one bed… he did not attempt to interfere with me”, Donald would state. But with the landlady objecting to two men sharing a bed, James went in search of a new lodging. On 15th November 1935, James spotted an advert in a newsagent’s window: ‘single room, £1 7s a week plus room cleaned and sheets washed, J Lanza, 47 Lexington Street’. It was affordable, discrete and – with Soho having a long-history of tolerance towards homosexuals – this could be their little love-nest. Moving in the next day, this small front room was furnished with a dresser, a table, a bucket as a toilet (with the feted stinking waste tipped into the communal cesspit out back each day), and a thick double mattress with fresh bedsheets every two weeks. It was comfortable. And although they had to a share a bathroom, Donald would state “we did not get food in the house” as they had no access to kitchen. According to those who were there, James Hall the lodger got on well with Jeanne-Marie Cotton the landlady; she was quiet and didn‘t bother them, he paid on time and rarely spoke to her. Donald would state “I never heard him have any quarrels with her, nor did I ever hear him threaten her in any way”. As a moral woman who didn’t like his immoral ways, in private to Dorothy she would openly call them ‘Nancy boys’, just as in private to Donald, he would lambast her as ‘the bitch on Lexington Street’. It was no secret that they weren’t on friendly terms, but that was hardly a solid motive to murder her. As suspects go - compared to Carlo her violent partner, Dintis her absconding lover, or the mysterious ‘Mr Cohen’, a man so threatening that he made her physically shake – James Hall hardly fits the bill. He could be The Soho Strangler given that he lived near or with each victim – although others did too; given that he had a history of violence against woman – but only against his wife; and given that he used aliases and short-term lodgings – and yet, who wouldn’t if they were on the run for cheque fraud? If he was The Soho Strangler; maybe these murders were merely failed robberies, maybe he did them in a drunken haze, maybe he had a split personality, maybe they weren’t sexually assaulted as James was gay, or maybe, it’s just a coincidence that both victims were small mid-forties French brunettes? James was the most unlikely suspect in the search for The Soho Strangler; as he wasn’t punter, a pimp, a ponce, a white slaver, a gang member, a foreigner, a stranger, or (the press’s chief suspect) a Jew. And yet, the Police hadn’t got it wrong… …they weren’t searching for a serial strangler stalking Soho’s sex-workers - as no-one even knew that one existed - they were simply seeking the most likely suspect in the murder of Jeanne-Marie Cotton… ….and that was James Allen Hall. James was a despicable man; a violent drunk, a selfish thug, and the kind of callous thief who had no qualms about stealing funeral funds from bereaved widows, and - as the police would suspect – an arrogant man who could take the life of innocent person over something entirely pointless and trivial. Barely any of which made it into the press, as being gay – an outcast who was blamed for corrupting society – his real crime was his sexuality, as every detail of his life was tagged with the words; ‘lewd’, ‘depraved’, ‘sick’ and ‘disgusting’. Although if we were to ask French Fifi or Marie Cotton what deeds their staunchly heterosexual partners or punters did to them, I’m sure ‘foul’ would be a fine word. Sadly, this was a reflection of the era, as the police investigation also focussed heavily on James’ sexual activities, even though The Soho Strangler killings – of both Fifi and Marie – had no sexual motive. When 18-year-old Donald Ross was interviewed about his relationship with 28-year-old James Hall, the Police flagged buggery, masturbation and added “there is abundant evidence to prove that Hall is a sodomite”. Implying that he was coerced, Donald would state “after going to Lexington Street with Hall, he had an unnatural connection with me on several occasions and used a tube of Vaseline”. A few days after they had moved in, James invited a kilted solider back to the room. Donald would state “I saw them both in bed. Hall said to me ‘I have brought a lady home tonight for a treat’…”, the kilted soldier was naked. “I saw Hall and the solider holding and rubbing each other’s persons. Hall asked me to get in bed, but I refused”, later “I got into bed with them. Hall caught hold of my person and rubbed it. After this, I went to sleep. This was the first time that Hall had been indecent to me”. With their sexual exploration becoming ever regular, “on subsequent nights, Hall masturbated me and himself… and he had an unnatural connection with me up my back passage about half a dozen times”. At first, Marie let their passions slide, as the sounds of man-on-man sex permeated the partition wall. But unhappy with their noises, she asked them to stop or she would ask them to leave, and they did. “I never heard them argue”, Donald would state. But as these ‘foul sex acts’ and ‘sadistic orgies’ - as the press would describe them - began again, tensions arose between the landlady and the lodger. It may not seem likely that James was The Soho Strangler, but regarded as ‘a deviant’, it took no leap for society to assume that any ‘gay sadist’ had an appetite for ‘strangulation’… even of a women. So, putting The Soho Strangler aside for a second, was James Hall a killer… …or as Marie’s murder had no other suspects, Fifi’s had gone unsolved, and with the press’ readers feverishly baying for ‘blood’, had the Police simply bagged themselves a very convenient scapegoat? The dispute between landlady and lodger occurred over a rather minor matter of morals and hygiene. A few days before 30th January 1936, while Marie was cleaning James’ room (as per their agreement), she spotted “stains on the bed linen caused by excreta, semen and Vaseline”, owing to gay anal sex. Not wanting to cause any fuss, she left a note. Donald would state: “Mrs Lanza spoke to me about this matter. (She) was not upset with me, and as far as I know, she was not unpleasant with Mr Hall”. Dates vary, but on Saturday 8th February, James quit the lodging. And as a very literal ‘dirty protest’ against his landlady’s intolerance – her nose wrinkling in disgust each time he called his boy ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ - James took the half-full bucket of pee and plop, and tipped it over the fresh sheets. Returning hours later, Marie was hit by the stench of rotting shit and the feverish buzzing of flies, as several litres of steaming human waste soaked the sheets, the mattress and the floorboards below. Angry and disgusted, finding both men lodging at Winnie MacDonald’s house in Oakley Square, Marie showed Winnie, Donald’s sister, the festering mattress dumped by the cesspit. She didn’t want a fight or to take this any further, what she wanted was £2 and 10s as her rightful compensation for damages. Confronted by Winnie, with James refusing to pay Marie a penny, Winnie took charge; she booted him out of her house, she ordered her little brother Donald back to Edinburgh (which he was “more than happy to do”), and – to help Marie get the money she was owed - she gave her James’ work address. Aided by her new lodger, Dorothy Neri, on Tuesday 17th March 1936 at 6pm, Marie ascended the stairs to the third floor of 65 Margaret Street in Fitzrovia, where James worked at Denard Manufacturing. As the office was shut, she slipped a note under the door, which he later said “annoyed him”. Hoping to resolve it amicably and eventually face-to-face, they communicated by letter. But as James had no intention of paying, treating her request with disdain, it had a become a game of cat and mouse. Thursday 19th March, James wrote “Dear Madam. I am sorry that I was not able to call, but business made this impossible. As regards this evening I have already made my plans… perhaps you could call me tomorrow night at 6pm, when I shall be in, but to call before that time will be of no use as I shall be out on business. Hoping this will be convenient. Yours faithfully. J Hall”. She called, but he was out. Saturday 21st March, “Dear Madam. If you let me know the amount, I will see what I can do in the next few days. I enclose an envelope for your reply, as it is useless to keep calling. As soon as I hear from you, I will give the matter my immediate attention. Yours faithfully. J Hall”. She did, only he didn’t. Sunday 22nd March, Marie replied “Dear Mr Hall… owing to your own arrangements, I have lost two evenings work. I shall not waste more time over this matter…” and having already threatened to “take it further”, on Thursday 26th March, she wrote “Dear Mr Hall. Seeing you have not kept to your word, will you kindly call and see me as soon as you can… if not I shall take it to court. Mrs J Lanza”. For anyone else, a soiled mattress would amount to a minor misdemeanor and a paltry fine. But as he was on the run from one set of solicitors seeking to issue him a divorce petition for ‘violent conduct’ and a second set for the criminal charge of embezzlement, any court action risked his imminent arrest. Unwisely having chosen to pay her nothing, on Thursday 9th April - the same day that Marie was shaken by the fear of the mysterious Jew who hunted her, known only as ‘Mr Cohen’ – Marie & Dorothy handed in an application for the summons of James Hall at Great Marlborough Street Police Court. With the legal wheels now in motion, on Friday 10th, Saturday 11th and Tuesday 14th April, just two days before her death, Marie & Dorothy visited his work. Again, as he was out (or possibly hiding), they made anyone who was passing aware of his ‘filthy habits’ and ’bed debts’, ruining his reputation. “She asked my advice”, said Sydney Cohen, a ladies’ tailor on the same floor, “I told her to go to the police”, which she did. As not only was the soiling of a mattress a criminal act, so was homosexual sex. Thursday 16th April 1936 was Marie Cotton’s last day alive. From 7am onwards, she was seen by several witnesses having an unremarkable day, with her last seen at 5:15pm, when Dorothy took a bath, and left Marie washing and cleaning in her unlocked kitchen. From 9am to 5pm, James would state he was at work, half a mile north-west on Margaret Street and a ten-minute walk from Lexington Street. Her time of death was between 5:30 and 7:30pm, but no-one saw him on Lexington Street at all that night, and yet, he was never more than a few streets away. At 6:40pm, Leonard Theyes met James at the Angel & Crown pub on Warwick Street in St James, and from that point onwards, he was seen at several pubs, until he returned to his lodging at The Trafalgar. Those who drank with him said, he seemed his normal self; not upset, dishevelled, fearful or anxious. In truth, there was nothing suspicious about James’ actions on the day of the murder… …and yet, the following day smacks of a man living in fear. The morning of Friday 17th April 1936 was deathly still. As a damp fog hung low and an excitable crowd hung their heads in silence, a small black coffin was mournfully carried into the back of a black van. At about the same time, James opened the doors of Denard Manufacturing before anyone was even in, and wrote himself four cheques, in the name of his employer, totalling £13 14s and 6d (£1100 today). With the cheques cashed, James fled, his employer was alerted, CID issued a description, posters were put up seeking a ‘ruddy-faced 28-year-old wanted for fraud’ and – having found Leonard Theyes in his list of ‘known associates’, as James had written to him whilst serving in Wandsworth Prison – on the 24th April, James was tracked down to The Sutherland Public House on Vigo Street, and was arrested. But did he flee because of the court summonses, or because he was guilty of murder? On 29th June 1936, James Allen Hall was tried at The Old Bailey. Found guilty, he was sentenced to 12-months hard-labour… for six counts of embezzlement. Delayed for three months, the inquest into the death of Jeanne-Marie Cotton was resumed on 9th June 1936 at Westminster Coroner’s Court. With her cause of death certified as ‘ligature strangulation’ Dr John Taylor, the pathologist stated “strangulation could not have been self-inflicted”. with police divisional surgeon Dr Charles Burney confirming “there was no suggestion of her having been hanged”. Police had identified “two indentations on the side of the bed and cigarette ash which pointed strongly to someone having entered the flat who knew her”. But with no fingerprints, no witnesses, no clues and no confession by the Police’s prime suspect – although Superintendent Walter Hambrook would state “Hall gave a most unfavourable impression in the mind of the jury. Nothing, however, is capable of proof against anybody so far as murder is concerned and the crime is a complete mystery”. The Coroner, Mr Ingleby Oddie would conclude “the only person against whom it may be said she had a grievance, and who may be said to have had a grievance against her is Hall. His grievance against her is not a very serious one, and hers against him is not a very grave one … that provides a very inadequate motive”. And with the evidence slim and circumstantial, the inquest was closed, James was dismissed, and the death of Jeanne Marie-Cotton was listed as “murder by persons or persons unknown”. No longer deemed a viable suspect, James Allen Hall was returned to Wandsworth Prison to complete his sentence for fraud, and he was later arrested for another offence ‘indecency… on a man’. (Out). With two women murdered, over five months across a few streets, in similar circumstances and with no clear motive or suspects, the Police were at a loss and many accused them of grasping at straws. With no answers to the question ‘how safe are we?’, a panic began to spread, as the sinister idea of a serial killer stalking Soho’s streets had been planted in the eye of the public, the press and its readers. In its day, Jack the Ripper was not an instant sensation, as some of his early victims were dismissed as merely unremarkable events or one-off incidents of fallen women, many of whom would be forgotten. And yet, all it took was ‘a panic’, ‘another murder’ and a ‘name’ for the pieces to be put together. Three streets east and three weeks after the murder of Marie Cotton, The Soho Strangler would strike again; this time, another prostitute in Soho, strangled to death by an unseen stranger, in her own bed. But whereas, although the deaths of Fifi & Marie were initially mistaken for a suicide and an accident owing to how serene the crime-scene seemed, this next attack could not be confused with anything but a horrifying murder, as the walls, floor and door was saturated and dripping in his victim’s blood. Had the killer lost his usual cool and composure, had his mania given him a taste for blood, or with the press having almost ignored his two previous murders, did this serial-killer crave a public‘s attention? By May 1936, only one man was on the people’s lips… …and his name was ’The Soho Strangler’. Part Five of Ten of The Soho Strangler continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-NINE
This is Part Three of Ten of The Soho Strangler. Five months later, the murder of Soho prostitute ‘French Fifi’ was forgotten. On Thursday 16th April 1936, the body of 43-year-old French national Jeanne-Marie Cotton was found dead in her flat. Initially mistaken for an accident or natural causes, a more in-depth-investigation would prove it to be murder, only no-one had noticed the shocking similarities between the mysterious death of Marie Cotton and French Fifi, just two streets south.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. Murder of Jeanne Marie Cousins at Lexington Street, Soho, on 16 April, 1936 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257748
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: The morning of Friday 17th April 1936 was deathly still, as a damp fog hung. Drenched in sober silence, a small crowd bowed their heads, as down the staircase and through the street-door of 47 Lexington Street, two men in mournful suits carried a black wooden coffin into the back of a black waiting van. Like a rabid virus, word had quickly spread across Soho that Jeanne-Marie Cotton had been murdered; strangled in her own flat, with her own scarf, in a motiveless attack by an unknown killer. And although some of the crowd said a prayer for this quiet little lady, others only came to giggle and gorp, as keen to gossip to their pals - until more details were released - their half-baked theories would be ceaseless. Fuelling the fire, that day Marie’s murder was headline news in many national papers. Hastily recycling any salacious titbits (whether fact or false) to get the scoop, many like the Daily Mail and the Leicester Evening Mail both went with ‘Beautiful woman murdered in Soho’ – as its faster and cheaper to copy and paste from a press release, rather than to dispatch a reporter to ‘do their job’ – and having already connected a few of the dots – the Nottingham Evening Post went with ‘Second Beauty Slain in London’. The story of ‘French Fifi’ was as dead and buried as her body, but now they had a reason to remember her; ‘New Flat Riddle for Scotland Yard’, ‘Is there a link with stocking crime?’, ‘Both victims strangled and French’. Overnight, the unremarkable deaths of two forgotten women had gained notoriety, but only because their murders had sex, death, mystery, and a faceless killer who stalked in the shadows. Focussed on speed rather than accuracy, the press bastardised the facts; ‘fingerprints of killer found at murder’, only they actually belonged to the first PC on the scene; ‘Police took away a bloodstained door’, which was wrong as the pool of blood about her nose hadn’t splashed nor spread; and ‘£14 found in cupboard’, which was false as according to Carlo “nothing was missing”, not even a penny. The very next day, the Evening Standard quoted Superintendent Walter Hambrook as stating: “this case cannot be associated with the ordinary class or murder”, which – in the minds of the newspapers and its readers - put the deaths of Marie Cotton and ‘French Fifi’ upon a pedestal, above any other. The problem was… he never said those words, as many details published in the press were twists on truths or all-out lies. But if you print it, it becomes fact, and the more you repeat it, it becomes proof. The death of ‘Marie Cotton’ would have been as unremarkable as it was forgotten… …and yet, as the gossip brewed, a myth about ‘a strangler in Soho’ began to stir. As the word ‘murder’ rippled with unstoppable speed about the West End, as often happens, theories as to the culprit spread and the usual bigoted band of society’s villains were blamed; like gays, Jews, foreigners, bohemians, the insane and the disabled - choosing to believe it was ‘them’ and never ‘us’. Every witness had a theory as to who had done it, but like the crime-scene, the police were methodical. Although Josephine Pouliquen would state “I feel certain she was murdered by Mr Lanza, he is a brute and often kicked Madame Cotton… as did Remo”. Carlo Lanza was seen by many reliable independent witnesses at work during the hours she died. As was Remo, his son, who found her body. As well as Dintis her lover, who Dorothy described as “a dangerous man”, his movements were accounted for. Last seen alive by her lodger, Dorothy Neri - who was having sex in her room, a few feet away, with her ‘Jewish’ boyfriend Braham Alban when Marie was murdered – neither were suspected as culprits. And as her ex-husband was dead and the mysterious ‘Mr Cohen’ could not be proven to even exist, the Police toyed with other theories, such as a chance encounter, a secret in her past, a failed burglary, or that – living on the same floor as a Soho prostitute – that her death was a case of mistaken identity. All were examined but dismissed, as the Police had a prime suspect… …someone who had a method, a motive, and a reason to kill. It’s hard to pin down who he was as he riddled his life with so many lies. To some he said he was from Yorkshire, but to others, that he was from Norfolk. He said he was an orphan, only his mum was still alive, and his dad had only just died. And although many called him ‘Jimmy’, ‘Graham’ and ‘Peter Graham’ – three aliases he was known to use to hide his crimes - his real name was James Allen Hall. Born in 1907 in Shelton, a parish 12 miles south of Norwich, his father was an Inn keeper, his mother was a housewife, he had one older sister called Dora, and – to keep the coffers coming in – a lodger. Branded as ‘unruly’ and ‘selfish’, what sparked his aggression is unknown, as although educated, he would stumble into petty thievery to fund a lifestyle of drink, fashion and sexual experimentation. On an unknown date in the late 1920s, James married May, making her Mrs May Janet Hall. How they met and why they wed is a mystery, as with misery pervading their home - for reasons of his own - he only married her to hide the truth, and drinking heavily, he often assaulted her. In 1931, May applied for a divorce, but before her solicitors could issue him with the papers, he had already fled to London. Being ‘on the run’, James worked as assistant clerk to his father at the Southgate Burial Board in North London, processing monies for the plots and gravestones of the recently bereaved. In early 1933, his father died, and by the May, he had fraudulently cashed two cheques totalling £59 (or £4500 today). As was his habit when things got hot, before he could he arrested, he fled leaving his widowed mother to fend for herself. He hunkered down in lodging houses, he hid under aliases, he racked-up debts and being booted out for misbehaviour, lewd acts and drunkenness, he always left a trail of destruction. Drink, sex, violence, and money – four words which were hardly the calling card of The Soho Strangler; a killer so calm and controlled that he never left a single witness or piece of evidence as to his identity. But then again, maybe as a fledgling killer finding his feet… …his lack of capture was as much down to luck, as it was to his cunning. In the spring of 1935, James worked as a clerk at Denard Manufacturing, a gown manufacturer at 65 Margaret Street in nearby Fitzrovia. On 3rd October 1935, having interviewed twenty applicants for an intern role – all being young slim boys - he hired 18-year-old Donald Ross, the one he fancied most. Donald would state “I wasn’t corrupted until I met Hall”, but as homosexuality was still illegal, maybe he was defending himself, protecting his reputation or laying the blame on the police’s key suspect. Having dated for three weeks – with trips to the cinema, drinks at known gay pubs and playing billiards – they began dating. Staying at James’ lodging at The Trafalgar at 37 Craven Terrace, “I agreed (to stay) and slept with him in one bed… he did not attempt to interfere with me”, Donald would state. But with the landlady objecting to two men sharing a bed, James went in search of a new lodging. On 15th November 1935, James spotted an advert in a newsagent’s window: ‘single room, £1 7s a week plus room cleaned and sheets washed, J Lanza, 47 Lexington Street’. It was affordable, discrete and – with Soho having a long-history of tolerance towards homosexuals – this could be their little love-nest. Moving in the next day, this small front room was furnished with a dresser, a table, a bucket as a toilet (with the feted stinking waste tipped into the communal cesspit out back each day), and a thick double mattress with fresh bedsheets every two weeks. It was comfortable. And although they had to a share a bathroom, Donald would state “we did not get food in the house” as they had no access to kitchen. According to those who were there, James Hall the lodger got on well with Jeanne-Marie Cotton the landlady; she was quiet and didn‘t bother them, he paid on time and rarely spoke to her. Donald would state “I never heard him have any quarrels with her, nor did I ever hear him threaten her in any way”. As a moral woman who didn’t like his immoral ways, in private to Dorothy she would openly call them ‘Nancy boys’, just as in private to Donald, he would lambast her as ‘the bitch on Lexington Street’. It was no secret that they weren’t on friendly terms, but that was hardly a solid motive to murder her. As suspects go - compared to Carlo her violent partner, Dintis her absconding lover, or the mysterious ‘Mr Cohen’, a man so threatening that he made her physically shake – James Hall hardly fits the bill. He could be The Soho Strangler given that he lived near or with each victim – although others did too; given that he had a history of violence against woman – but only against his wife; and given that he used aliases and short-term lodgings – and yet, who wouldn’t if they were on the run for cheque fraud? If he was The Soho Strangler; maybe these murders were merely failed robberies, maybe he did them in a drunken haze, maybe he had a split personality, maybe they weren’t sexually assaulted as James was gay, or maybe, it’s just a coincidence that both victims were small mid-forties French brunettes? James was the most unlikely suspect in the search for The Soho Strangler; as he wasn’t punter, a pimp, a ponce, a white slaver, a gang member, a foreigner, a stranger, or (the press’s chief suspect) a Jew. And yet, the Police hadn’t got it wrong… …they weren’t searching for a serial strangler stalking Soho’s sex-workers - as no-one even knew that one existed - they were simply seeking the most likely suspect in the murder of Jeanne-Marie Cotton… ….and that was James Allen Hall. James was a despicable man; a violent drunk, a selfish thug, and the kind of callous thief who had no qualms about stealing funeral funds from bereaved widows, and - as the police would suspect – an arrogant man who could take the life of innocent person over something entirely pointless and trivial. Barely any of which made it into the press, as being gay – an outcast who was blamed for corrupting society – his real crime was his sexuality, as every detail of his life was tagged with the words; ‘lewd’, ‘depraved’, ‘sick’ and ‘disgusting’. Although if we were to ask French Fifi or Marie Cotton what deeds their staunchly heterosexual partners or punters did to them, I’m sure ‘foul’ would be a fine word. Sadly, this was a reflection of the era, as the police investigation also focussed heavily on James’ sexual activities, even though The Soho Strangler killings – of both Fifi and Marie – had no sexual motive. When 18-year-old Donald Ross was interviewed about his relationship with 28-year-old James Hall, the Police flagged buggery, masturbation and added “there is abundant evidence to prove that Hall is a sodomite”. Implying that he was coerced, Donald would state “after going to Lexington Street with Hall, he had an unnatural connection with me on several occasions and used a tube of Vaseline”. A few days after they had moved in, James invited a kilted solider back to the room. Donald would state “I saw them both in bed. Hall said to me ‘I have brought a lady home tonight for a treat’…”, the kilted soldier was naked. “I saw Hall and the solider holding and rubbing each other’s persons. Hall asked me to get in bed, but I refused”, later “I got into bed with them. Hall caught hold of my person and rubbed it. After this, I went to sleep. This was the first time that Hall had been indecent to me”. With their sexual exploration becoming ever regular, “on subsequent nights, Hall masturbated me and himself… and he had an unnatural connection with me up my back passage about half a dozen times”. At first, Marie let their passions slide, as the sounds of man-on-man sex permeated the partition wall. But unhappy with their noises, she asked them to stop or she would ask them to leave, and they did. “I never heard them argue”, Donald would state. But as these ‘foul sex acts’ and ‘sadistic orgies’ - as the press would describe them - began again, tensions arose between the landlady and the lodger. It may not seem likely that James was The Soho Strangler, but regarded as ‘a deviant’, it took no leap for society to assume that any ‘gay sadist’ had an appetite for ‘strangulation’… even of a women. So, putting The Soho Strangler aside for a second, was James Hall a killer… …or as Marie’s murder had no other suspects, Fifi’s had gone unsolved, and with the press’ readers feverishly baying for ‘blood’, had the Police simply bagged themselves a very convenient scapegoat? The dispute between landlady and lodger occurred over a rather minor matter of morals and hygiene. A few days before 30th January 1936, while Marie was cleaning James’ room (as per their agreement), she spotted “stains on the bed linen caused by excreta, semen and Vaseline”, owing to gay anal sex. Not wanting to cause any fuss, she left a note. Donald would state: “Mrs Lanza spoke to me about this matter. (She) was not upset with me, and as far as I know, she was not unpleasant with Mr Hall”. Dates vary, but on Saturday 8th February, James quit the lodging. And as a very literal ‘dirty protest’ against his landlady’s intolerance – her nose wrinkling in disgust each time he called his boy ‘darling’ or ‘sweetheart’ - James took the half-full bucket of pee and plop, and tipped it over the fresh sheets. Returning hours later, Marie was hit by the stench of rotting shit and the feverish buzzing of flies, as several litres of steaming human waste soaked the sheets, the mattress and the floorboards below. Angry and disgusted, finding both men lodging at Winnie MacDonald’s house in Oakley Square, Marie showed Winnie, Donald’s sister, the festering mattress dumped by the cesspit. She didn’t want a fight or to take this any further, what she wanted was £2 and 10s as her rightful compensation for damages. Confronted by Winnie, with James refusing to pay Marie a penny, Winnie took charge; she booted him out of her house, she ordered her little brother Donald back to Edinburgh (which he was “more than happy to do”), and – to help Marie get the money she was owed - she gave her James’ work address. Aided by her new lodger, Dorothy Neri, on Tuesday 17th March 1936 at 6pm, Marie ascended the stairs to the third floor of 65 Margaret Street in Fitzrovia, where James worked at Denard Manufacturing. As the office was shut, she slipped a note under the door, which he later said “annoyed him”. Hoping to resolve it amicably and eventually face-to-face, they communicated by letter. But as James had no intention of paying, treating her request with distain, it had a become a game of cat and mouse. Thursday 19th March, James wrote “Dear Madam. I am sorry that I was not able to call, but business made this impossible. As regards this evening I have already made my plans… perhaps you could call me tomorrow night at 6pm, when I shall be in, but to call before that time will be of no use as I shall be out on business. Hoping this will be convenient. Yours faithfully. J Hall”. She called, but he was out. Saturday 21st March, “Dear Madam. If you let me know the amount, I will see what I can do in the next few days. I enclose an envelope for your reply, as it is useless to keep calling. As soon as I hear from you, I will give the matter my immediate attention. Yours faithfully. J Hall”. She did, only he didn’t. Sunday 22nd March, Marie replied “Dear Mr Hall… owing to your own arrangements, I have lost two evenings work. I shall not waste more time over this matter…” and having already threatened to “take it further”, on Thursday 26th March, she wrote “Dear Mr Hall. Seeing you have not kept to your word, will you kindly call and see me as soon as you can… if not I shall take it to court. Mrs J Lanza”. For anyone else, a soiled mattress would amount to a minor misdemeanour and a paltry fine. But as he was on the run from one set of solicitors seeking to issue him a divorce petition for ‘violent conduct’ and a second set for the criminal charge of embezzlement, any court action risked his imminent arrest. Unwisely having chosen to pay her nothing, on Thursday 9th April - the same day that Marie was shaken by the fear of the mysterious Jew who hunted her, known only as ‘Mr Cohen’ – Marie & Dorothy handed in an application for the summons of James Hall at Great Marlborough Street Police Court. With the legal wheels now in motion, on Friday 10th, Saturday 11th and Tuesday 14th April, just two days before her death, Marie & Dorothy visited his work. Again, as he was out (or possibly hiding), they made anyone who was passing aware of his ‘filthy habits’ and ’bed debts’, ruining his reputation. “She asked my advice”, said Sydney Cohen, a ladies’ tailor on the same floor, “I told her to go to the police”, which she did. As not only was the soiling of a mattress a criminal act, so was homosexual sex. Thursday 16th April 1936 was Marie Cotton’s last day alive. From 7am onwards, she was seen by several witnesses having an unremarkable day, with her last seen at 5:15pm, when Dorothy took a bath, and left Marie washing and cleaning in her unlocked kitchen. From 9am to 5pm, James would state he was at work, half a mile north-west on Margaret Street and a ten-minute walk from Lexington Street. Her time of death was between 5:30 and 7:30pm, but no-one saw him on Lexington Street at all that night, and yet, he was never more than a few streets away. At 6:40pm, Leonard Theyes met James at the Angel & Crown pub on Warwick Street in St James, and from that point onwards, he was seen at several pubs, until he returned to his lodging at The Trafalgar. Those who drank with him said, he seemed his normal self; not upset, dishevelled, fearful or anxious. In truth, there was nothing suspicious about James’ actions on the day of the murder… …and yet, the following day smacks of a man living in fear. The morning of Friday 17th April 1936 was deathly still. As a damp fog hung low and an excitable crowd hung their heads in silence, a small black coffin was mournfully carried into the back of a black van. At about the same time, James opened the doors of Denard Manufacturing before anyone was even in, and wrote himself four cheques, in the name of his employer, totalling £13 14s and 6d (£1100 today). With the cheques cashed, James fled, his employer was alerted, CID issued a description, posters were put up seeking a ‘ruddy-faced 28-year-old wanted for fraud’ and – having found Leonard Theyes in his list of ‘known associates’, as James had written to him whilst serving in Wandsworth Prison – on the 24th April, James was tracked down to The Sutherland Public House on Vigo Street, and was arrested. But did he flee because of the court summonses, or because he was guilty of murder? On 29th June 1936, James Allen Hall was tried at The Old Bailey. Found guilty, he was sentenced to 12-months hard-labour… for six counts of embezzlement. Delayed for three months, the inquest into the death of Jeanne-Marie Cotton was resumed on 9th June 1936 at Westminster Coroner’s Court. With her cause of death certified as ‘ligature strangulation’ Dr John Taylor, the pathologist stated “strangulation could not have been self-inflicted”. with police divisional surgeon Dr Charles Burney confirming “there was no suggestion of her having been hanged”. Police had identified “two indentations on the side of the bed and cigarette ash which pointed strongly to someone having entered the flat who knew her”. But with no fingerprints, no witnesses, no clues and no confession by the Police’s prime suspect – although Superintendent Walter Hambrook would state “Hall gave a most unfavourable impression in the mind of the jury. Nothing, however, is capable of proof against anybody so far as murder is concerned and the crime is a complete mystery”. The Coroner, Mr Ingleby Oddie would conclude “the only person against whom it may be said she had a grievance, and who may be said to have had a grievance against her is Hall. His grievance against her is not a very serious one, and hers against him is not a very grave one … that provides a very inadequate motive”. And with the evidence slim and circumstantial, the inquest was closed, James was dismissed, and the death of Jeanne Marie-Cotton was listed as “murder by persons or persons unknown”. No longer deemed a viable suspect, James Allen Hall was returned to Wandsworth Prison to complete his sentence for fraud, and he was later arrested for another offence ‘indecency… on a man’. (Out). With two women murdered, over five months across a few streets, in similar circumstances and with no clear motive or suspects, the Police were at a loss and many accused them of grasping at straws. With no answers to the question ‘how safe are we?’, a panic began to spread, as the sinister idea of a serial killer stalking Soho’s streets had been planted in the eye of the public, the press and its readers. In its day, Jack the Ripper was not an instant sensation, as some of his early victims were dismissed as merely unremarkable events or one-off incidents of fallen women, many of whom would be forgotten. And yet, all it took was ‘a panic’, ‘another murder’ and a ‘name’ for the pieces to be put together. Three streets east and three weeks after the murder of Marie Cotton, The Soho Strangler would strike again; this time, another prostitute in Soho, strangled to death by an unseen stranger, in her own bed. But whereas, although the deaths of Fifi & Marie were initially mistaken for a suicide and an accident owing to how serene the crime-scene seemed, this next attack could not be confused with anything but a horrifying murder, as the walls, floor and door was saturated and dripping in his victim’s blood. Had the killer lost his usual cool and composure, had his mania given him a taste for blood, or with the press having almost ignored his two previous murders, did this serial-killer crave a public‘s attention? By May 1936, only one man was on the people’s lips… …and his name was ’The Soho Strangler’. Part Five of Ten of The Soho Strangler continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-EIGHT:
This is Part Two of Two of The Soho Strangler. Having discovered the body of 41-year-old prostitute 'French Fifi' in her bedroom, the police surgeon had determined that that her death was "most probably a suicide" given all the evidence placed before him. But what it a suicide, or was this the first fledgling killing by The Soho Strangler.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. COURT RECORDS: Josephine Martin ('French Fifi') found murdered at Archer Street, W, on Monday 4th November 1935 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257744
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: The suicide of French Fifi was a shock, but not shocking; there was no rush and no fuss, just sadness. Felicite would state “I made a cup of tea and I took it to the bedroom, the door was half open. I saw madame on her back with her feet on the floor and with one shoe and stocking off. I thought she had too much to drink. I said ‘madam, here’s your tea’. I touched her hand. She was dead and cold…”. Descending to The Globe Club on the first floor, in broken English, Felicite stammered “madame dead, madame dead”, as hysterical as anyone who had found their friend of 15 years, deceased. Seeing her distress, Charles Bull the manager, Joseph Phillips the doorkeeper and Lance George an actor entered the bedroom of Flat 1 on the third floor of 3-4 Archer Street, and saw her body, at peace, on the bed. With Soho being a place synonymous with sex, the suicide of a prostitute was not an uncommon sight, given the stresses of their lives; a hopeless never-ending cycle of drink, debt, depression and abuse. As expected; Charles Bull alerted a constable, PC Hill secured the scene and summoned a doctor, Dr Re of Frith Street pronounced ‘life as extinct’, and – as her cause of death had to be determined, as suicide was still a criminal offence – the CID of Vine Street were called in, with the investigation headed up by Divisional Detective Inspector John Edwards and Chief Superintendent Walter Hambrook. The crime scene was assessed methodically. The door to Flat 1 was examined by a locksmith who determined there was no tampering, no damage and no signs of break-in. The flat had three keys, one for Fifi, one for her maid and one for the landlady – Vera Richards, all of which were accounted for, with Fifi’s found in a new handbag in the bedroom. With the light-switches to the hallway and the bedroom in the ‘on’ position, a shilling in the meter but both light-bulbs off, it was assumed she had died with the lights on, only for the money to run out. As a spotlessly clean flat, it was clear what had been touched since the maid had left 36 hours prior; the ashtray contained several stubs of spent cigarettes (of differing brands) belonging to herself and the men she may have entertained that evening; as well as one plate, one knife, one fork and one cup, all used for a last meal before bed, with an oily pan on the hob and a pot of tea half drunk and cold. Found days later, witnesses came forward and pieced together her last known possible movements; a chat with the doorman at Mac’s Club on Great Windmill Street at 2am and a black coffee at The Old Friar’s café in Ham Yard, before she left and headed one street east to Archer Street. Both confirm, she was alone and seemed a little lonely, but she didn’t seem harassed, and no-one was following her. Speaking to her friends, no-one recalled anything suspicious in the days prior; no threats, no stalking and no unusual levels of assault for this struggling sex-worker with debts to several local businesses. Speaking to the building’s tenants proved equally as fruitless, as with both clubs (The Globe and Cairo) closed, the communal street-door was locked at midnight, the second floor was vacant and the fourth floor flats were uninhabited, all the police could rely on was the account of Millie, next door in Flat 2. At 1am, “I passed her door”, Millie would state “and I noticed her hall-light was on. This was unusual. I shouted to her but got no reply”. At 2am, in a taxi, “I came back with a friend”, William Charles-Hill known as ‘John Cow’, “he spent the night, we stayed up till about 4:30am and we heard nothing”. In the bedroom, there were no signs of disturbance; her coat was on the chair, the drawers were shut, her ornaments were on the dresser, her radio was where it sat (as determined by the slight bleaching of sunlight) and the curtains were open roughly 12 inches, meaning that at the time of her death, her bed and her body was illuminated by either a single bulb above, or the street-lights on a timed circuit. Had this been an assault, a sense of panic and fear would have pervaded the room, but it was calm. Her body was positioned as expected; as having sat on the bed’s edge to remove her stocking, she had tied it about her neck and fallen backwards, leaving her feet on the floor and her head on the pillow. Her clothes were neat and undisturbed; her brown tweed skirt still fastened with a safety pin, her underwear – blue silk cami-knickers, a pair of woollen knickers and a white woollen vest – hadn’t been interfered with, and off her white linen and satin suspender belt was a fake silk stocking on her right leg fastened with two clips, as off her left leg, a stocking had been unclipped and carefully rolled down without a tear, run or rip, as she then placed her blue court shoe under her bed. Tied twice about her neck, those who found her body didn’t see the stocking, as it was concealed by a grey woollen jumper. As seen in traumatic deaths, often the deceased dies with their last expression etched on their face – a hint of shock, fear or tears - where-as Fifi’s face was the epitome of peace, like her pain had erased. By the night’s end, she looked as she had at the start; her lips rouged in red, her eyelids brushed black, her short brown bob kept in place with a set of Kirkby grips, and her “claw-like” fingernails unbroken. With no suicide note found (which is not unusual), her mood was determined by the detritus of worry on her bedside dresser; Post Office receipts to send her lover Jimmy a few pounds to aid his recovery from heroin addiction, and her final fine, bail bond and court summons for the crime of prostitution. At 1:50pm, Divisional Police Surgeon Charles Burney undertook a preliminary examination of the body in situ, ensuring it was neither touched nor moved to preserve any evidence, no matter how small. The stocking was tied twice about her neck using a ‘half hitch’ knot, a common but carefully considered load-bearing knot which - once she had started to lose consciousness (which would have occurred early given her low blood pressure) - she would need a knot which retained its position as her hands and body went limp. Dr Burney would state that with a few of her hairs and her grey jumper’s tassel tangled within “it is possible that it was caught in the knot while she was standing or sitting up”. It was tied by a right hander, Fifi was right-handed and she had died clutching the stocking in her right hand. Initially, her cause of death was most likely ‘asphyxia’, she had been dead for ‘8 to 10 hours’ putting her time of death at between 4am and 6am although “rigor mortis is delayed in cases of sudden death”, and asked for a suspected motive, Dr Burney would state “it was probably a case of suicide”. But when asked how certain he was, he would state “it was fifty-fifty”. The Police thought it was a suicide, the evidence suggested it was a suicide, the Police Surgeon had implied it was a suicide, and with very little to suggest otherwise, only an autopsy would find the truth. By 6pm, as the body of Josephine Martin was removed to Westminster mortuary, the press had begun sniffing about the death of a prostitute in the seedy underbelly of the West End. (News vendor) “Extra! Extra! Read all about it… Italy’s big push in Abyssinia” was the headline in the Daily Telegraph, as the Second Italo-Ethiopian War raged on. With a British election looming, the Evening Standard went with “New MPs announced” and – as the tabloid moto is “if it bleeds it leads” – the press were salivating over the grisly murders of Dr Buck Ruxton; a crime so savage, that having mutilated their bodies into so many pieces, the press had dubbed him ‘the Savage Surgeon’ and his crimes as ‘the Jigsaw murders’. The death of ‘French Fifi’ was deemed so unimportant that these small articles reporting the case were hidden deep in the newspapers, and they would have been binned had it not been a slow news day. Keen to play up the salacious angles, the press slathered over any fact to make this dull story drip with intrigue; that she was “French”, “unmarried” and a “prostitute”. They drooled over every detail about the stocking, the flat and her habits. They added their own flourishes like “artificial respiration was tried in vain” which was untrue. They did anything to make it exciting, as suicides don’t sell papers. In the Daily Herald dated the 5th November 1935, her death made front-page news; “Woman’s Death Mystery in West End Flat. Strangled by her own stocking. Scotland Yard officers investigating the death mystery of a woman in a Soho flat had not ruled out the possibility that she had been murdered”. The autopsy to determine her cause of death was still taking place… …and yet, this detail was enough of a ‘seed’ to plant a ‘hint’ of a mystery of a ‘possible murder’. With the public only able to get their “facts’ from newspapers, by the time that witnesses to Fifi’s last sightings were unearthed, their details had already been sullied by what they had read. Interviewed days after her death, the doorman and the café owner were deemed reliable witnesses, although it couldn’t be determined if they had actually seen her on the night of her death, or hours to days prior. Witness statements are notoriously flawed, often being riddled with elaboration, confusion, fibs, false facts and downright lies, as everyone has their own reason to aid an investigation. Some may be good Samaritans simply keen to do what is right, whereas others are in it for fame, spite or personal gain. Head Waiter at the Criterion in Piccadilly stated he saw ‘French Fifi’ with two women in the Grill Room at 3:30am. This turned out to be a different French brunette, as by that point, she was already dead. Taxi-driver Charles Branch confirmed in his logbook that at 1:30am on the night in question, he picked up a small woman from 3-4 Archer Street, drove her to Caledonian Road near King’s Cross, where she waited for a man, he drove them back to her address and they both entered via the street door. He stated, “owing to her mannerisms, it struck me at the time that something was wrong”. Police would determine that she had climbed the stairs to the third floor and entered her flat with the man. Only this woman was Millie, Fifi’s neighbour in Flat 2 and the man was Millie’s friend William Charles Hill. And then there was Sydney Bloom, a Jewish seller of contraception to prostitutes in the West End who had volunteered information that between 9:15pm and 10pm he saw Fifi on Glasshouse Street with a man. But being “an incorrigible rogue” with nine convictions for larceny, he had “offered his assistance to the police” having first informed them of his own “impending trial”, a tit-for-tat scam he had done several times prior. Discounting his sighting, Sydney Bloom was sentenced to four months hard labour. As with newspapers, witnesses can be unreliable for a variety of reasons, as not everything in print is a cast iron fact and (being littered with omissions, opinion and bias) It’s hard to tell what the truth is. In the investigation into the death of Josephine Martin, known as ‘French Fifi’… … the police would rely on the most infallible piece of evidence - her autopsy. On Tuesday 5th November 1935 at 11:30am, the autopsy began at Westminster Mortuary, conducted by the Home Office pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury, in the presence of the Police surgeon Dr Charles Burney and Divisional Detective Inspector John Edwards. In it, the following was agreed: Time of death: “difficult to determine as the heating was meter-powered and the window was partially open making the room temperature inconsistent… the body was rigid and putrefactive gases were felt beneath the skin…” therefore this would place her time of death nearer to the hours of 1am and 3am. Condition: “the deceased was healthy with no natural disease to account for her death”, she was small and often sickly but “she was well developed and could have put up a good resistance” to an attack. Sexual motive: with no torn clothing, no bruises to the thighs and no semen inside her vagina, “there is no indication of any recent act of sexual intercourse, or any attempt at the time of her death”. Bruising: “some recent and old bruises, but nothing within the last day”, but later found hidden amidst the purple swelling of her neck was a fresh bruise to her left jaw. Although, given the abuse they often endure, the Police would state “try find a West End prostitute who does not have bruises to her neck”. Digestion: in her kitchen, she had made a last meal for one, but with her stomach only containing “a brown liquid” (most likely the tea) and “tomato or apple skin” (not found in the flat), with no trace of a fried egg in her gastric juices, either she ate them earlier that night, or someone else ate the eggs? Both doctors confirmed that her cause of death was “asphyxia by strangulation” - as her larynx was crushed, her tongue swollen, her eyes protruded from their sockets and she had wet herself. But Sir Bernard would query “if she had died by ligature strangulation, I’d have expected to see more lividity”. Her face was ‘at peace’ when she died, but “that is no guide as to whether it was murder or suicide”. Having been photographed, the stocking was removed and sent to the laboratory. Twisted taut, bound twice and tied tightly about her neck, the stocking had been fastened with a half hitch knot under her right ear, suggesting it had been secured by a right-handed person, like Fifi. And although the suddenness of the unconsciousness could account for the lack of scratches or struggle, Sir Bernard would comment “she had either died or was at the point of death when the ligature was tied… after the hand was removed from the neck, she gave a gasp or two, the bloodstained mucus in the airways was then inhaled, vomit got into the airway and then the stocking was passed around her neck twice, tied in a half hitch and held for a while”. When found, the ligature was tight and secure. Of that, Sir Bernard would quip “I have never known a woman to strangle herself with her own hand”. Partially obscured by the stocking and its ensuing swollen wounds, bruises were observed; four fingers to the right of her neck and a thumb mark to the left. Larger than her own, their origin impossible was to date for a prostitute who had recently been attacked by “a foreigner who got hold of her throat”. At the back of her bloodied mouth having bitten her tongue, her dental plate (of four teeth mounted on Vulcanite) was found shattered into three pieces. Possibly linked to the bruise on her jaw, Sir Bernard would state “in my opinion, the breaking of the dental plate is indicative of murder”. And with “haemorrhages in the bladder, intestines and rectum” a knee had been pressed hard on the abdomen. With so-many variables – like; were her injuries the result of two different assaults on the same or separate nights, an assault which led to her suicide, or an attack which led to her murder - although Dr Spilsbury was emphatic “this was a homicide”, Dr Burney was torn, as “this could still be a suicide”. The two experts would debate this for the next three weeks, leaving Detective Inspector Edwards to conclude his report of the 9th November 1935, “the whole circumstances of the case are mysterious”. The Police needed ‘time’ to compile the ‘evidence’ to find the ‘truth’… They had several possible suspects: Henry V Martin, her ex-husband by a (possible) ‘marriage of convenience’ was later traced to America, having not seen her in more than a decade. Albert Mechanique, her brother had an alibi for the night of her death and – although dubbed ‘a common criminal’ who was ‘always in debt’ - it made no sense for Albert to murder his sister, as she had been financially supporting him for the last few months. Even though an anonymous letter to the Police branded French Albert “as a rascal… and a ponce”. As for her lovers? Caesar Mary was in Brussels with an alibi, and – although he stated “it was Fifi who put me away” – he wasn’t angry, upset and - after his deportation - he never made any threats against her. As for Jimmy Orr, he arrived at Caldicott Hall in Nuneaton two days earlier to begin his drug detox, and he didn’t leave the premises – as confirmed by his doctors – until he was made aware of her death. With no regular clients and those she was in debt-to being pals, the Police interviewed hundreds of witnesses, suspects and anyone with a history of violence against prostitutes, but they came up blank. The public fed them their suspicions – usually ex-lovers and former friends in the hope of getting them into trouble – as well as usual bigoted band of society’s villains who were blamed for everything simply because they were different; such as foreigners, gays, Jews, bohemians, the insane and the disabled. With nothing new to say, the Police went quiet… …and with nothing new to report, the Press into overdrive. 6th November, the Daily Herald, “Silk Stocking Riddle Baffles Police. Nearly two days after the discovery of the body… Scotland Yard are unable to state how she died… acquaintances of ‘French Fifi told us they had always feared that “sooner or later she’d be killed by some man”. The source of that quote was never found, and by then her death was still listed as a suicide, but then suicides don’t sell papers. The Herald incorrectly wrote; “…detectives believe that robbery was the motive… friends declare ‘Fifi’ had large sums of money in her flat” - which was untrue as she was broke and only 1p was found. The Evening Standard also declared “£9 Gone from Stocking of Dead Woman”, and although “she kept her money in the heel of her left stocking”; it’s impossible to say how much she earned or what happened to it; whether spent, stolen, sent it to Jimmy (and subsequently lost) or – as the Police suspected – “it is possible that it may have been stolen by those who found her body”, most of whom were criminals. Awaiting the outcome of the autopsy; the press wrote about ‘plain-clothed officers patrolling Soho’, ‘suspicious men being followed’ and unverified quotes by mystery sources about ‘imminent arrests’. But as the days of radio silence turned into weeks with no solid facts, the Press needed to find a fresh angle to keep their readers interested, some of which was been born out of a tiny nugget of truth. The Press had already decided two things; one that she had been murdered, and two, “as the police intensified their search of scores of cafes and nightclubs in the West End…” in an “intensive combing of the underworld”, that her murderer must be local, working-class, possibly foreign and a criminal. One day after her death, the Daily Herald declared “(we) understand that the woman was believed to have given evidence which this year had led to a sensational court case”. Of course, there is record of a court case, no mention of it in her police file and not one single newspaper reported this “sensational court case” in the months prior to her death - but if you print it, people will believe it to be a fact. On 27th November 1935, The People stated “Death of ‘French Fifi’ baffles yard… was she the victim of a gang of white slavers… some believe she made statements which led to their arrests”. Now this was true with Cesar Mary, but as a French prostitute, there is no evidence she was ever trafficked. On the 1st December 1935, the Sunday Pictorial, a sleazy tabloid rag raised the stakes higher; “French Fifi was White Slaver. Murdered by Gang Because She Knew Too Much”. Which there was no proof of, but given that she was dead, they could print whatever they liked, even if it was entirely false. It read; “French Fifi had an amazing career in the underworld which the police are now fully aware” - this was a lie. “She is said to have been an agent of a gang of white slave traffickers” - she wasn’t. “For months, Scotland Yard has been waging war on marriages of conveniences” - this was true, although her only known link was a suspiciously short marriage, and “some days before French Fifi was found murdered a Scotland Yard inspector called to see her to obtain information about gang members… the gang had communicated with her, for letters from one of its members were found in the flat… ’French Fifi’ had undoubtably paid the penalty for knowing too much” – not a single shred of which could be proven. Sadly, for simple-minded readers of such tabloid trash who couldn’t comprehend that a newspaper’s role is as much to inform as it is to entertain, a simple fact had entirely passed them by. if Fifi was a white slaver, why was she so poor, why did she work alone, and why did she still sell her body for sex? Part of this misinformation is down to their need to sell salacious stories, as well as the Police’s attitude during the investigation; as although solid statements were given, the report claims “…her associates are prostitutes and criminals which has made it difficult to get truthful and coherent statements”, she is repeatedly described not as “the victim” but as “the dead prostitute”, and – with robbery suggested as a possible motive – the ensuing attack was blamed on her, as “she was getting old, fat and ugly”. After three weeks of deliberation, Sir Bernard Spilsbury and Dr Charles Burney resolved their findings into the autopsy of Josephine Martin, alias ‘French Fifi’. Re-opened on Tuesday 26th November 1935 at 2pm, the inquest into her death was held at Westminster Coroner’s Court, by Mr Ingleby Oddie. With several witnesses giving evidence, including; her friends Freda Miller, Clara Bennett & Lilly Hayes, her neighbour Millicent Warren and Home Office pathologist Sir Bernard Spilsbury, the inquest was concluded the same day, with the coroner declaring her death as a “wilful murder by person of persons unknown”, although the pathologists would state this is a likelihood of probability, not a cast iron fact. With no suspects to be questioned and no eyewitnesses to her murder, both the investigation and the inquest were closed, as every possible avenue had been exhausted, resulting in no charges nor arrests. Just like Jack the Ripper - three miles east and almost fifty years earlier - the murderer of ‘French Fifi’ had fled unseen, leaving no clues as to his motive or his identity. Having vanished into thin air, it was as if he didn’t exist. And with this death initially mistaken for a suicide, no-one knew that this was the first fledgling killing by a serial killer who stalked the sex-workers of West London’s red-light district. By 1935, the Soho Strangler was nothing, being barely a whisper on the breeze. But with his killing spree just beginning, soon this man would become a monster, a sadistic slayer who would unleash terror on the streets, making him as infamous (in his day) as Jack the Ripper… and then, be forgotten. Part Three of the Soho Strangler continues next week. 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.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-SEVEN:
This is Part One of Two of The Soho Strangler. On Monday 4th November 1935, at roughly noon, the body of 41—year-old Josephine Martin, a Soho prostitute known as ‘French Fifi’ was found by her maid in her own bed, having asphyxiated herself using her own stocking. Wracked with debts and depression, her death was noted as “possibly a suicide”… when in fact, it was the first killing by The Soho Strangler.
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. COURT RECORDS: Josephine Martin ('French Fifi') found murdered at Archer Street, W, on Monday 4th November 1935 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1257744
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: (1880s sounds). News vendor: “Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Jack the Ripper baffles Scotland Yard”. 1888, Whitechapel, home to East London’s sex-trade; a sinister shadow stalked its dark brooding alleys brutally slaying a slew of so-called ‘fallen’ women in a viscous spree over just a few streets. Fleeing unseen and leaving no clues, the mystery of Jack the Ripper’s identity and motive fuelled a burgeoning tabloid media baying for blood in print, making his killings as infamous today as they were back then. Jack the Ripper was the first spree-killer of his kind… but he wasn’t the last. (1930s sounds). News vendor: “Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Soho Strangler baffles Scotland Yard”. 1935, Soho, almost fifty years later and three miles west, an unseen slayer stalked the fog-wreathed streets of West London’s red-light district. Four woman – all poor, all foreign, all linked to the sex trade and all unnervingly similar in life or looks – were strangled alone in their beds, with escalating ferocity. Dubbed ‘The Soho Strangler’, this lone maniac terrorised these few streets, leaving women in fear, the police at a loss, and – with no witnesses or clues - even today, all four murders remain unsolved. Syndicated worldwide, newspapers from London to Lisbon, Chicago to Karachi fed off the fever of his killing-spree; it made Soho a byword for terror, the Strangler a sadist to be feared and it bestowed a notoriety on his four unfortunate victims - ‘French Fifi’. Marie Cotton, ‘Dutch Leah’ and ‘French Marie’. The Soho Strangler was once the Jack the Ripper of his era… …but with fascists on the rise, Nazis seizing power and a ‘real’ horror looming on the horizon, death would soon come (not to a few, but) to hundreds in Soho and millions across the world. And although, both of these cases were strangely similar, one remained infamous as the other was entirely forgotten. Limitless books have tried to solve the riddle of the Ripper killings, but what stalls every investigation is the lack of evidence, as most of the documents were lost, stolen or inaccurately regurgitated by a tabloid press focussed on speed and not accuracy. 135 years on, it’s unlikely that it will ever be solved… …and yet, in the case of The Soho Strangler, we have everything, from court records to police files, autopsy reports, witness statements, coroner’s inquests and full histories of his victims and suspects. Told in full for the very first time, this is the true story of Britain’s long-forgotten serial-killer… …The Soho Strangler. (Music swells) Archer Street, Soho; the seedy heart of the West End’s theatre and sex-trade is a cramped little slit between Piccadilly Circus, Shaftesbury Avenue and Old Compton Street. Riddled with jazz joints, jizz parlours, pubs, clubs and brothels, it hummed with the sordid bustle and stench of booze and sex. Monday 4th November 1935, just shy of noon, elderly French maid Felicite Plaisant strolled into 3-4 Archer Street. Passing the Windmill (Soho’s infamous burlesque club), the street-door was unlocked as usual, as she ascended the staircase. The Cairo Club in the basement and the Globe Club on the first floor were silent except for the scrubbing of cleaners prepping for the late-night trade, with the second floor currently vacant, and the third and four floors sublet to four sex-workers in four single flats. As a prostitute’s maid, Felicite worked a twelve-hour shift for a modest wage of £1 per week. Her job; to make the bed, to wash the sheets, to empty the ash-tray, to ensure the room was spick-and-span, and to generally be invisible to any good or nervous clients, and yet visible to those who were bad. On the third-floor, she unlocked the door to Flat 1, seeing no movement beyond its frosted glass. With the hall often silent at this hour, Felicite crept in, as her employer – 41-year-old French prostitute Mrs Josephine Martin, known as ‘French Fifi’ – slept till mid-afternoon, having worked from 5pm to 3am. Nothing seemed out of place or wrong; the rug had rucked up (as it always did) when madame opened the door, several cigarette butts littered the ashtray, and a half-eaten meal of eggs and tea adorned the kitchen table, but - pretty much – the flat was as she had left it thirty-six hours earlier. With no client seen, through a slightly ajar curtain, she saw ‘Fifi’ alone on the bed, fully dressed and flaked out. As per usual, Felicite popped a kettle on the hob to make them both a cuppa for the long day ahead. Felicite would state: “I took it to the bedroom… she was lying on her back with her feet on the floor and with one shoe and stocking off. I put the tea on the dressing table… I caught hold of her hand, I shook it, and said ‘here’s your tea madam’. Her hand was stiff and cold. I then realised she was dead”. Having taken her own life, using her own stocking to cease her own breath, her passing marked the sad and tragic end to the turbulent life of a good woman who only wanted to be loved. Sickness, loss and depression had pock-marked her final years, only for her to succumb to a very lonely suicide. The death of ‘French Fifi’ was as unremarkable as it was forgotten… …and yet, unbeknownst to the world, it was the first fledgling killing of the Soho Strangler. Long before she hid behind her alias, ‘French Fifi’ was born Josephine Mechanique on the 22nd of July 1894 in Paris; the eldest of two siblings with an older brother Albert. Raised by Russian Jews in a French suburb, the family frequently moved to flee their persecution as immigrants. And given her chaotic upbringing, it was no surprise that wherever she fled to, Josephine was always desperate to find love. Seen as softly spoken and sensitive, she was described as “a good girl who kept her family well”, “a quiet soul who seldom spoke to anyone”, and a “woman who doesn’t just fall in love, she becomes besotted and will do anything for the person she adores”. Being ‘easy on the eye’, Josephine was a petite and slightly plump brunette, with her hair in a bob, long fingernails and a set of ruby red lips. In 1901, for reasons unknown, seven-year-old Josephine was brought to England, leaving behind her mother, but followed one year later by 16-year-old Albert who would live off Leicester Square and worked as teacher at an Oxford Street dance school. Working alongside her tailor father in the French parts of Soho, she was educated and knew the streets well, but her English would always be broken. Aged 14, in 1910, she returned to Paris, only her true home held nothing but horror for the young girl. According to James Orr, a later lover of Josephine’s: “some man became acquainted with her”. Being so besotted by him that she did as he bayed “he put her on the streets”; a little girl forced to sell her virginity to seedy strangers in Rue Pigalle, the dark and dangerous streets of Paris’ red-light district. Made pregnant by a man who had pimped her out and ponced off her illegal earnings, her illegitimate child was born in secret, adopted under a false name, and she never saw her only child ever again. By the end of the First World War and after four years as a prostitute, ‘Fifi’ moved back to London; although it is uncertain if she fled or was trafficked by French pimps as part of the ‘white slave trade’. Either way, from this point on, her life was no longer her own. In September 1919 at Marylebone Registry Office, barely months after her return to Soho, 24-year-old Josephine Mechanique married British citizen Henry V Martin, a waiter at the nearby Trocadero. I wish I could tell you that she found love and lived happily ever after, but she didn’t. It’s likely this was a marriage of convenience, possibly paid for by her pimps, so her newly established British citizenship would make it impossible to deport her for crimes she would commit to pay off her debts to her pimps. After just six months, Josephine and Henry split and he promptly moved to America to start a new life for himself, possibly funded by the small wage he was paid for an afternoon’s work. She rarely spoke of him again, but retained his surname and the wedding ring, which would gift her some respectability. That same year, being sick with loneliness, Josephine fell for Cesar Mary, a serial philanderer who worked at the Belgian Consulate in Belgravia. Wooing her with fine words and gifting her a good life – of a nice flat, fancy furs and lavish cocktail parties - he fulfilled her dreams. So besotted was Josephine, that on her right thigh, she’d tattooed an unfortunate epitaph, it read - ‘To my Cesar, forever till I die’. Only with his love a cruel sham, it’s likely his legitimate job was a ruse to hide his illicit affairs and – as was a familiar trick employed by the white slave trade – he gave her everything, only to take it away. Living in poverty but fuelled by the hope of a return to ‘the good life’, as ‘French Fifi’, Josephine would be forced to pay her way, with an ever-escalating fee to her pimps, which she could never pay off. In short, she was trapped in a circle of sex and debt… …and yet, although little and quiet, Josephine had a fiery temper when things got a little too hot. In 1923, after three years living under Cesar’s rule, she packed up her belongings, moved in with her brother Albert, and – doing something as brave as it was foolish – following her arrest for prostitution, she appeared at Bow Street Police Court as witness for the prosecution against Cesar. Found guilty of ‘living off her immoral earnings’ he was sentenced to one month’s hard labour and – as an illegal alien – on 6th September 1927, he was deported back to Belgium, later stating “it was Fifi who put me away”. It is said that she never saw Cesar ever again. But as ‘white slavers’ rely on aliases, lies and alibis… …none of what has been said can ever be proven. By 1927, after 17 years as a prostitute, all ‘French Fifi’ knew was sex. Shielded by a nom-de-plume, her alias gave a hint of the exotic to her working-class punters, but it also shrouded her truth in a mystery. As a well-known and well-liked figure in Soho’s sex-district; she plied her trade on Glasshouse Street (a short thoroughfare from Piccadilly Circus to the eastern edge of Regent Street); she always dressed elegantly in fine furs, neat make-up and discrete but affordable jewellery; she was always polite, often alone, but blessed with many friends who were prostitutes, they escorted one another for protection. Post-Cesar, it is unknown whether she had a pimp, but as Soho’s prostitution rackets were ran by a slew of foreign criminals - whether French pimps like Roger Vernon and the Marseille Collective, Red Max and the Iron Gang, or Maltese gangsters like the Messina Brothers and the Vassallo Gang – until the day of her death, Josephine would amass 74 convictions for prostitution and brothel-keeping. ‘French Fifi’ was a professional prostitute, who ate well, lived an okay life and earned a modest wage… …and yet, that year would ignite a tragic downfall which would end with her lonely suicide. In 1928 - buckled by cramps, bleeding and dizzy spells - 34-year-old Josephine was rushed to Middlesex Hospital, as cancer was spotted on her womb. Given an emergency hysterectomy which saved her life, although she remained under medical care, it would plague her with pains for the rest of her days. Her maid would state “Madam was always sick…”; cursed by sharp pains in her back, hot flushes to her face, dysentery, fever, shortness of breath, and a blood pressure so low she often passed out. Discharged after three months, she went straight back to work, all broken and withdrawn. On the 9th November 1933, Josephine moved into Flat 1 on the third floor of 3-4 Archer Street in Soho, between the Lyric Theatre and The Windmill; a busy side-street chock-full of musicians, dancers and actors, as well as pubs and clubs supplying a passing trade of drunks with ready cash and raging boners. Split into a sitting-room, a bedroom, a kitchen and a bathroom, Vera Richards the landlady liked her French tenant as she “always kept a spotlessly clean flat” and “only once was late with her £2 rent”. For Josephine, her professionalism was a matter of pride; her dresses were stylish, her fur coats were neat, her make-up was subtle and her stockings never had a rip or a run. To her French maid, 72-year-old widow Felicite, she was always kind, caring and never failed to pay her wage, even if she was short. By 1935, her last year alive, times were hard for Josephine. Described as “tight with money and always sober”, where-as once this exquisite French beauty with a doll-like frame, searing blue eyes and pouting red lips had her pick of the ten-or-so clients a night that her sultry Parisienne murmur lured in, now – cracked, faded and often bedridden for days on end – this middle-aged, lightly-greying, slightly pudgy woman struggled to muster three drunks, at best four. According to Millie, a friend and fellow sex-worker “she didn’t have a type, she slept with anyone, Chinese, even coloureds”, and earning (if it was her own) an okay wage of £4 to £6 per night depending on the weather, “she had no regular callers, that I know of, and no-one came back for a second time”. As a teetotaller, her limited funds rarely covered her out-goings. With her looks as her money-maker, although her long-fingernails were neat and painted, the dental-plate of her false teeth was old, she owed debts to a dressmaker, she had hocked her furs meaning she was paying £2 weekly to wear her own clothes, and – except for her wedding band to Henry Martin – she had pawned all of her jewellery. The Police report would state “there is no doubt that she was heavily in debt and was living a hand-to-mouth existence”, as – of the debts that we know of – by the time of her death, she owned £106 4s and 6d, roughly £8,352 today, just shy of the average annual wage in 1935. But her debt wasn’t a silly lady struggling to look pretty, as being “a good girl who kept her family well”, she supported her brother Albert and his wife for months, and often bailed him out of prison, when he needed her most. Always frugal, she wasn’t a spender, a lush or a squanderer, it was compassion which was her curse, as fuelled by a longing to be loved “she became besotted and would do anything for those she adores”. In the summer of 1932, at the Lyon’s Corner House tearoom in Piccadilly, Josephine met 29-year-old James Orr known as ‘Jimmy’, a car dealer from Chicago whose handsome looks had got him bit-parts in the movies. What blossomed was love, real love, to a good man who loved her back, and although her life as a convicted prostitute may have put some men off, Jimmy loved Josephine no matter what. It could have been something wonderful… only Jimmy had a demon – heroin. Cursed with the sickness of addiction, although not a drug-user herself, Josephine loved this man who was decent, kind and through his struggle she supported him through poverty, pain and torment to try and save his soul. All she wanted was to be loved… and yet, love would be denied her. By the autumn of 1935, as the nights drew longer and punters grew fewer, as a 41-year-old slightly portly lady with no savings, few family, a recurring sickness, a burden of debt and unable to move on as she was legally-wed, after quarter of a century in sex-work, her tawdry little life was to be her lot. Felicite would state “I have not heard her threaten to commit suicide… but almost daily she’d complain about things being ‘none too good’ but it was a regular remark in conversation… she was fed-up”. On Friday 18th October 1935, two weeks before her death, Josephine appeared at Great Marlborough Street Police Court on her final charge of prostitution. As was easiest, she pleaded guilty and paid the 40s fine to the court’s jailer - PC Frederick Pragnall. At her inquest, he would state “she seemed very depressed, she said ‘I’m fed up with this life. I’ve a good mind to finish it. I’m sick of it all’”. Stuck in a vicious cycle of sickness, debt and loneliness, her unremittingly empty life was hard, getting harder… …and – worse still – it was dangerous. For prostitutes, violence is an all-too-common part of daily life. One week before her conviction for prostitution, Millie, her neighbour in Flat 2 “heard a quarrel in her room and I knocked on the wall”. Later, Josephine admitted “I had a struggle with a foreigner who got hold of my throat”. But for Millie “it was quite usual for Fifi to have rows with the men she brought home. She would demand more than the agreed price, refuse to undress and was always in a hurry to get the man out of her flat”. She was last assaulted four days before her death. On Thursday 31st October at roughly 9:30pm, Millie heard Fifi shout ‘come on, give me the money first’, as the foreign ‘bilk’ as she would call him, tried to get the sex without paying. “I banged on the wall and the noise stopped”. The next day, barely shaken, Josephine showed Millie the bruises to her arms (seen at her autopsy) and stated she wasn’t afraid. It was said that she could handle herself when she had to… …and too often, she had to. Having been robbed and burgled more times than she could recall, “she would never take her stocking off in front of a man and she very seldom undressed before him”, not just to speed up the sex, but “she always kept her money in the heel of her left stocking”, as witnessed by her maid and friends. ‘French Fifi’ was tiny and tough, but maybe that last attack was an attack too far for a fed-up woman? Saturday 2nd November 1935 was her penultimate day alive, and with it came a tidal wave of emotions. Having seen and supported Jimmy every day for the last two years, as much as she would miss him for the next three months, she helped him get into Caldicote Hall, a home for ‘inebriates and drug addicts’. Without a quibble, she paid his bills, made him meals, gifted him an allowance and would sacrifice her own needs by sending him “to get clean”, 91 miles north-west in the Midlands town of Nuneaton. That day, she so wanted to kiss him and wish him goodbye, but having left his hotel, it was not to be. The rest of her day was an ordinary as any other, only her mood was predictably melancholic. The night was cold and glum, as a bitter wind whistled down Archer Street. But drizzle aside, between 9pm and 11pm, ‘Fifi’ picked up three men (unseen by Felicite) and being quick and quiet “they only stayed for 10 minutes”, with the £2 and 5s she made being posted to Jimmy, and a 2s tip for her maid. Having changed the sheets and left the flat pretty much as she would find it 36 hours later, at roughly midnight, as Felicite exited the door, Fifi’s last words to her were “Goodnight, I’ll see you on Monday”. Of course, she wouldn’t… as she would take her own life. At 12:30am, she met Millie at the Continental Café on Shaftesbury Avenue and lamented her loss as her lover was gone. At 1:15am, she handed her brother 6s as she often did to keep him out of debt, and from 1:30am to 6am, she stayed with her friend Frieda, smoking cigarettes and eating pies. That night, they planned to meet up again later, only this would be the last sighting alive of ‘French Fifi’. The last 18 hours of her life will always be a mystery. At 5:30pm, Frieda called Fifi’s phone in her flat, “she sounded happy and said she’d see me later” as they often escorted each other on their patches; Frieda on Green Street and Fifi on Glasshouse Street. As agreed, Frieda waited for her pal at their pre-planned place and time, only oddly, Fifi never arrived. Interviewed days later, there were a few possible sightings of Fifi, only the details cannot be verified. Between 9:15pm and 10pm, Sydney Bloom, a Jewish seller of contraception to prostitutes in the West End said he saw Fifi “on her patch and get off with a client”. At 9:20pm, Millie in Flat 2 heard Fifi shout ‘I can’t see the money, you haven’t put it down’, they briefly row and the man left. At 2am, James Weller, doorman at Mac’s Club at 41 Great Windmill Street, a road west of Fifi’s flat said “she wanted to come in… I said no, as woman can’t come in unless escorted by a gentleman”, they had a laugh and “she seemed normal and then left”. And seeing her turn left into Ham Yard, Beatrice, the owner of the Olde Friars Café at 16 Ham Yard served her semi-regular customer a black coffee. According to Beatrice “she sat alone, her arms were folded, no-one spoke to her, and I thought she looked really tired”. If those dates and times were right, at a little after 2am, one street east, she entered 3-4 Archer Street. Only nobody saw her, and - with the clubs closed and the tenants out - nobody heard her. (Out) Alerted by her maid Felicite Plaisant, at 1:50pm Divisional Detective Inspector John Edwards and Police Surgeon Charles Burney conducted an in-situ examination of the body and the scene. With every door and window locked and in good working order, there were no signs of a break-in. With no hint of a robbery, a disturbance or a struggle, foul play was not suspected. And with a half-eaten meal for one of fried eggs and a pot of tea on the kitchen table, it looked like she had dined alone and went to bed. With the lights out and the curtains still partially drawn, even at night the bedroom would have been lit by the streetlamps outside and the flats opposite, revealing the cold dead body of ‘Fifi’ on her bed. Lying on her back and fully clothed as if she was merely dozing, her face was described as ‘peaceful’, like her pain had been taken away. As on her dresser, lay painful reminders of her sad little life; Post Office receipts to fund Jimmy’s recovery, and a recent court summons for the crime of prostitution. As if her suicide was a last-minute decision; her hair was still tidy, her clothes weren’t disarranged, her fingernails were unbroken, and – as she only did when she was alone – she had removed the stocking from her left leg, she had unclipped it and carefully rolled it down so didn’t have a tear, a rip or a run. Keen to find peace, she wrapped it twice about her neck, tied a half-hitch knot to take the load and as she pulled it tight, her low blood pressure made her to pass-out and the stocking stopped her breath. With rigor mortis delayed by sudden trauma, her time of death was established as 8 to 10 hours prior, and with no recent bruising, Dr Burney concluded “it was probably a case of suicide”. Released by the coroner Mr Inglby Oddie, four days later her body was buried, paid by a Jewish charitable organisation. By the evening, a few local papers reported the death by suicide of a Soho prostitute known as ‘French Fifi’. Only, being hastily written by tabloid hacks, many were short and inaccurate, as if nobody cared. The suicide of ‘French Fifi’ was as unremarkable as it was to be forgotten… … and yet, unbeknownst to the world, it was the first fledgling killing of the Soho Strangler. 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.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
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 NINETY-SIX:
This is Part Two of Two of In Too Deep. On Tuesday 12th March 1968, at 11:10am, a gang of incompetant robbers staged a home invasion of the Flat 35 at Falmouth House, the home of a wealthy stockbroker and his pregnant wife. Having badly under-estimated his wealth, they set about trying to sell the last item of his worth anything - his car. But what starts as a simple robbery, ends in a horrific double murder.
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 bright green raindrop above the words 'The 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.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing outside of Falmouth House, opposite Hyde Park, W2. At 11:10am on Tuesday 12th March 1968, three inexperienced robbers forced their way into Flat 35, a stylish apartment owned by wealthy stockbroker Michael O’Carroll and his pregnant wife Janet. As an ill-conceived heist by an out-of-work dance teacher, swimming instructor and a trainee football coach who hadn’t disguised their identities – with the robbery having backfired – they had no Plan B. Expecting a pay-out of £20-30,000 (quarter of a million pounds today), they had made just £220, of which they had to refund £10 to their increasingly narked fence; the stockbroker was broke, his bank account was deeply in debt, his wife’s Mini was unsellable, and all that was left was a 4-year-old Lancia. Splitting their miniscule haul; Dave paid off his rent, Mike stayed in a hotel and Ray got the brakes on his dodgy car fixed, but now they risked lengthy prison sentences for robbery, fraud and kidnapping. These were not hardened criminals with a masterplan, they were three incompetents without a clue what to do; they had been seen by the porters (“what flat do you want?”, “Flat 35, O’Carroll”), they had earned almost nothing, they had touched almost everything, they were stuck with two hostages who knew their names, and - having barely slept a wink in almost 36 hours - nothing made any sense. At 2:45pm, Dave Bolton got Michael O’Carroll to call his work stating: “I won’t be back today, Jan’s not feeling great”. Therefore, no-one would know the couple were being held hostage for at least a day. Leaving Mike Ellis and Dave ‘the man with the plan’ to work out what to do next, Ray Cohen left at 4pm, got the Lancia, met a girlfriend on King’s Road, he watched Chelsea beat Sheffield Wednesday, and at 10pm, leaving their leader behind, Ray: “Dave suggested that Mike & I took the car to Glasgow”. And as Ray & Mike drove 390 miles to sell the stolen car in Scotland… …these inept hoods left behind a trail of evidence… …and a horrific double murder. The nearly-new Lancia roared up the dark-lit motorway; with Ray driving, Mike napping and these two buddies for barely a few months swapping over between loo-breaks and hot snacks in roadside cafes. Ray struggled a bit with the gears of this Italian sportscar as when he slipped from third to fourth, they crunched, but then again, this sleek shiny chick-magnet was far superior to his rusty old death-trap. This was a 1964 Lancia Flavia two-door convertible; able to do nought to sixty in 10.8 seconds with a top speed of 125mph, it was purchased new four years before for £1900 (£40000 today). Being in mint condition with leather seats, they could flog off this second-hand motor for a third of its price, maybe £600 making them £200-a-piece – which wasn’t great, but then it wasn’t terrible, and neither was it nothing. And unlike Janet’s Mini, they wouldn’t have a problem selling it – as having the car’s log-book, the proof of ownership and Michael’s driving licence – either man could easily pass as the owner. In the early hours of Wednesday 13th March, Ray & Mike arrived in Glasgow. As before, their mission would be simple, but – from the start - their inexperience and their immaturity would shine through. Ray would state: “we arrived and booked in at the Station Hotel facing Old Buchanan Street station. For reasons I did not know, Mike told me to book in as Mr O’Carroll. I can’t recall what name he used”. The pettiness of these squabbling felons is hard to fathom, as without a grown adult to smack the back of the legs and growl “no” when they played up, they acted two puppies who’d sprung the garden gate and were excitably running loose on a busy road, shitting everywhere and blaming the other. So, it’s not surprising that no-one mistook them for two robbers who would be wanted for kidnapping. Upon arrival, having checked-in under the names of ‘Cohen & Ellis’ (their real names) – which, let’s be honest, is equally as bad as using the name of the man they had robbed - although they were technically on-the-run, Ray & Mike treated themselves to a swanky hair-cut and a close shave at the hotel barbers. And as they sat back, neither man would realise till later, that they had dropped a large envelope containing the Lancia’s logbook, on the front of which was written the name ‘O’Carroll’. Thankfully their bacon was saved courtesy of the eagle-eyed receptionist who handed it back. At 11:30am, Ray took the Lancia to W Fraser, a car dealership. Ray: “Mr Fraser said he was interested in buying the car and I left him with the particulars”, which led to another stumbling block – they didn’t know whether Michael O’Carroll actually owned the car, or was paying it off in instalments. So, over the next few hours, Ray proceeded to call them on an hourly basis – as they performed a HP check. As you do when you’re on the run, Ray & Mike were as low-key and discrete as a drag queen drunkenly humping a Christmas tree. Via the hotel switchboard, they made numerous calls to London with Ray even calling his mummy to tell her he was okay. And at 6pm – as if this wasn’t suspicious enough – they checked out of the rather modest Station Hotel and moved into the more exclusive Central Hotel, because “it would look better to potential car buyers if we were in a classier place” – yeah, right. Having moved hotels – leaving a wealth of fingerprints which would later be identified by the Police – while the car-dealer checked the legal status of the Lancia, Ray & Mike went on a little spending spree. Ray later accused Mike of splashing-out: “he had a new suitcase, socks, shirts, ties, shoes and a three-piece suit”. And although it incensed him, he would later admit: “we had a few drinks at the bar… we went out to the cinema. After that, we went gambling at a casino called Chevalier. Mike lost £20 and I won £50”. Of course, when confessing your crime, it’s always good to brag about your Blackjack skills, but – conveniently for his alibi – his winnings matched the money he made by fencing the stolen loot. “We returned to the hotel and slept”, having spent a lot of money… but shed very little remorse. On Thursday 14th March, Ray & Mike went to Frasers and were thrilled to learn that it had passed the HP check. Only “he offered £520 and we wanted over £600”. Hitting a greedy impasse having rejected his offer, they took the Lancia to another Glasgow based car-dealer Ian Farr, who would piss on their plans when he dropped the bombshell “I’m not buying this, it’s a dog, the gearbox is shite”. And again, just like the Mini, they couldn’t sell the Lancia; this nearly-new but badly broken sportscar was now a dead-weight around their necks and it was drawing attention. Ray & Mike were 390 miles from home, and – of the £70 they had each made from the robbery - most of it they’d already spent. The whole thing had been an ill-conceived mess which had gone rotten from the start… …and now, it was about to get even worse. With the stolen car proving to be a bit of a hot potato in Glasgow, having telegrammed Dave with this less-than-glowing news, Ray: “Mike said he would take the car to Ireland, he asked ‘would I come?’ and I said ‘yeah, might as well’”. They had no contacts in the Irish city of Dublin, but having seen it in a holiday pamphlet, it looked nice, so they drove 86 miles south-west to the port of Stranraer. In truth, this half-witted heist had failed six months before it was mooted. Anything so audacious requires planning, but also a gang who have known each other for more than months or even weeks. But it was then – while sat inside of this unsellable Lancia – that Mike would drop another bombshell. Ray: “On arriving at Stranraer, Mike told me there was something I should know”. His face was pale and his eyes were wide. “He went to the boot of the car and he showed me a newspaper” it was a copy of that day’s Scottish Daily Express. It was a lengthy piece featuring a photo of Mr & Mrs O’Carroll; alongside several words he expected, like ‘Bayswater’, ‘Falmouth House’, ‘hostage’ and ‘robbery’… …but one word he did not – ‘murder’. The bodies of Mr & Mrs O’Carroll had been found by the Police in Flat 35; having been tied-up, gagged, stabbed and strangled. Fingerprints had been found and three men had been seen entering the flats. For Ray, he began to shake as he read further knowing his life as a free man was over. Only, one further fact shook him to his very core: “I knew immediately that I was mixed up with two murderers”. Having admitted it was he who had killed Janet Williams, Ray was now sat in the victim’s car alongside one of these slayers – who knew his name, his face, his address and - of their crime - he was an accomplice. Ray: “I was very shocked for quite a while, not knowing what to do. I decided in my own mind that I was going to somehow get back to London. I had to make sure that Mike didn’t know this, and – as he was hungry - we found a Chinese restaurant on the sea front and I tried to eat as calmly as possible”. Trying hard not to tremble as he shovelled chop suey with his chopsticks, although Ray was sat inches from Mike, it was clear that he was no more a cold-blooded killer than he was a criminal mastermind. In his words, they had no choice, as Mike would state: “she had seen everything, I had to strangle her”. That night, as they went to board the ferry at Stranraer, with both being spooked “we noticed that we were getting strange looks so we drove out of town”. Seizing the opportunity, Ray didn’t flee, he asked Mike straight: “I asked him to take me to Prestwick Airport. I was surprised that he had not minded doing this known fully well that I was intending to return to London” …and almost certainly the police. Catching the last flight out of Prestwick, Mike & Ray parted ways, Ray dumped the Lancia (as reported missing in the papers) in the airport car park and he caught a coach to Margate where he laid low. Ray’s return to London had left him with a deadly conundrum… …protect his cohorts by admitting only his part in the robbery but denying any knowledge of them, or their actions? Or, give them up, saving himself from possibly being charged with a double murder, only to risk the two killers hunting him down and harming him or his family for breaking his silence? His movements across Friday 15th March are as baffling as the robbery itself. Being a man who was worried for his safety and who – just one day before – had discovered that he had aided a double murder; “I went to Blazes in South Ken’… to the ABC cinema Fulham Road to see a film called ‘17’… the Villa Casino on Bayswater Road” - barely half a mile from the crime scene - “I played Blackjack and won £50. I went to the 45 Club on Cromwell Road and lost £110. And earlier, I had phoned my mother and she had told me that the police wanted to see me”. When asked why he hadn’t come straight to the police, Ray would state “I needed time to sort myself out and I was worried about Dave finding me”. Which – of course – could have been entirely true, or the mark of someone uncaring and inept? Typically for such a tragic tale of incompetence, Ray actually went to Scotland Yard to hand himself in, but as the desk sergeant didn’t know which station was handling the case, Ray simply walked out. But fearing for his life, Ray handed his old pal – Kuros – a slip of paper: “I wrote down the names ‘Dave Bolton’ & ‘Michael Ellis’, the two men involved in the murder on one of his cards and gave it to him on the understanding that if anything happened to me, he would disclose the names to the police”. On the morning of Saturday 16th March, Ray handed himself in at Paddington Police Station. Having been cautioned, almost everything you have heard – so far – has come from Ray Cohen’s confession. Thankfully, although the crime itself was wholly incompetent… …the investigation was swift and thorough. Barely an hour after it was dumped, a patrolling PC found Michael O’Carroll’s easily-identifiable Lancia at Abbotsinch Airport in Glasgow, containing more than thirty fingerprints of Ray Cohen and Mike Ellis. Of course, they could have torched the car erasing any trace of themselves – but they didn’t. That same day, a postman spotted a rucksack dumped outside of the John Knox Church at 34 Carlton Place in Glasgow, containing documents in the name of O’Carroll and Mike Ellis’s bloodstained suit. Of course, they could have dumped the bag in the Clyde River, barely ten feet away - but they didn’t. And yet, it was all academic, as the most damning evidence had already been discovered. At roughly 6pm on Wednesday 13th March, the phone rang again inside Flat 35, only no-one answered. Missing business calls and personal appointments, concerned colleagues and relatives had asked the porters (Albert Bryant & Joseph Buckley) to knock on the door, but outside the flat it was eerily silent. Oddly left uncollected, at the foot of the door lay a newspaper, a bottle of milk and a dozen eggs. The porters knocked, but got no reply. So, using their pass key, they entered Flat 35. With the heating left on, like in many other flats, the hallway was reassuringly warm as if the occupants were still in. It was as they had expected; shoes by the door, a hat on a stand, the Persian rug unruffled, and soft lights emanating from the lounge, the bathroom and both bedrooms at the end of the hall. But something was not right; as with no television, no radio and no chatter, the flat was devoid of life. As the porters traversed the long thin hallway, the only hint of disarray they saw was a broken mirror. Ahead lay the lounge. Entering this wide-open room, they saw a scene not too dissimilar those they had witnessed many times before in their careers as porters at Falmouth House. A stylish room dotted with seemingly the remnants of a party; several half-empty bottles of spirits, a few discarded glasses, unwashed dinner plates with the remnants of eggs, Rivita and a corn on the cob, and the ashtray full. With the record player on but the music long since finished, it wasn’t wrong to assume that a party had taken place, as being a popular couple, they’d hosted a little drinks soiree barely one week before. But as with all parties, not every detail made sense; as on the coffee table a wallet had been splayed, and on the sofa, a pair of nylon tights had been tied with hard knots and cut with something sharp. Whatever had happened here, the party-goers were long gone and all that remained was a ghost of a memory, as outside of the partially open French windows - overlooking Hyde Park - life carried on. Having followed the light to the bathroom, Joseph entered, but the pristine white room was empty and clean, with no signs of sickness or disturbance, and no sighting of its owners. It was then that – outside of the bathroom door - Albert spotted on the parquetted floor, a six-inch kitchen knife; a stainless-steel blade of the highest quality, glinting bright but with just its tip caked in a dried red goo. What it was? They could not tell, as neither man was a scientist, but it looked familiar and ominous. With soft lights spewing from the two remaining rooms, Albert & Joseph entered the opposing doors. Each stood by the bedroom door, but didn’t need to enter further to understand what had happened. Exiting, the silence of their lips and the wideness of their eyes told each other what was within. It was a sight unlike anything they would ever wish to see again, and something they could never unsee. At 6:45pm, PC’s Gillon & Brown attended an emergency call at Falmouth House, and called CID. The investigation was headed-up by Detective Chief Inspector John Bailey. With no signs of forced entry, the police initially thought the occupants had invited their killers home with them, but – with Michael in a business suit and Janet dressed to stay in – this didn’t seem right. With the drawers ransacked, documents laid out and personal affects clearly missing – for inexplicable reasons - these three robbers had waited inside the flat with their hostages. Unusually, there were no signs of assault in the lounge. In fact, treating them with kindness, their captors had provided drinks, meals and entertainment, even giving the pregnant woman extra cushions and trips to the bathroom. The relationship between the captors and hostages was initially cordial, but something had happened. There were no witnesses to this brutal double murder except for the killers themselves, as Ray had left to find the Lancia, and although the neighbours heard “loud noises” – no-one bothered to check. By 5pm, six hours into this hastily-concocted heist by half-wits, tension began to rise, as Dave realised that the massive pay-out of £20-30,000 was now little more than a pitiful £210, and an unsellable car. Had they made a mint, the risk would have been worth the reward, but as Michael & Janet O’Carroll stared-up at their captor (and former dance instructor); they knew his name, his face and his details. This bumbling fool and his gang of incompetents had no way out… except for the unthinkable. According to Ray: “Mike said it happened when Mr O’Carroll dashed for the service bell in the flat”, to alert the porters, “Dave put his hand round his neck and he had just collapsed. I then asked him what happened to the girl and he said that she had seen everything and that he had strangled her”. Later, Mike would deny killing her, and yet her blood would be found on the suit he had dumped in Glasgow. Only, the evidence would give a very different account of what happened to Michael & Janet. Most likely, being desperate for money, Dave had resorted to torture. With the newly-weds separated and moved to different bedrooms, on the beds both Janet & Michael were hog-tied and gagged with ties and tights. Unable to move and seeing nothing but the pillows below their faces - through the opposing doors of the hall - they could only hear each-others cries slightly muffled by the soft music. Playing his wife’s pain off against her husband’s agony, the more Michael professed that he had nothing else to give – as they had taken everything of value - the more they hurt her to hurt him. From barely twenty-feet away, he would have heard her cries and screams, but he could do nothing. Unable to comprehend that he had risked everything for such a pitiful sum of money, Dave grabbed a sharp carving knife from the kitchen, and – with Janet – face-down on the bed, he pressed the blade into the crook of her neck between her jaw and her left ear, piercing her soft flesh to make her squeal. The tip entered the muscle just one inch deep, but as blood poured down her neck, across her face and pooled about her nose and mouth, across the hallway Michael could hear her muffled screams. The woman he loved was terrified, choking and in agonising pain, and yet, still he could do nothing. Fearing that as a shrewd negotiator this veteran stockbroker would never give up, Dave turned his torture on Michael so that Janet could hear him hurt. She had always been a nice lady, kind and decent, so maybe – if she heard his screams - the lady with the baby in her belly would find a reason to live? Michael bled as Janet had, only the O’Carroll’s had nothing else to give… but their lives. No longer serving a purpose, both Michael & Janet were strangled to death with a scarf, but being left face-down on both beds and unable to move, they suffocated in a pool of their own blood. (End) With their fingerprints on file, a trail of evidence leading to their doors and Ray’s confession given at Paddington police station; Dave Bolton was arrested at his flat in South Tottenham and – although he denied knowing Mr & Mrs O’Carroll or his part in the robbery or murder; police found his notes from the Arthur Murray school in which he mentioned Michael & Janet, the £50 given to his landlord to pay his rent, and even though he had drycleaned the suit he wore that day – as if to mock his incompetence - his own wife had brought it to court for him to wear, and yet, it still had traces of his victim’s blood. One week later, Mike Ellis was arrested, having spent a week at the Butlin’s holiday camp in Margate. Having turned on each other, the police got statements from Ray & Mike, but with Dave acting like the ‘Big I Am’ and described as cocky throughout, all three were formerly charged with murder. Tried at the Old Bailey, it was unsurprising that such an inept gang would plead ‘not guilty’ given the wealth of evidence against them. With the trial split into two; Ray admitted to robbery and with his alibi being that he was at the football during the murder, he was sentenced to two years in prison. Owing to the evidence presented by Raymond Cohen, on the 22nd July 1968, David Bolton & Michael Ellis were found guilty of all charges. Dave Bolton was sentenced to 15 years for robbery, Mike Ellis to 12 years having pleaded guilty, and both were given life sentences for murder, to run concurrently. The robbery of Flat 35 should have been a simple home invasion, but being a half-baked heist by a band of incompetents with a hastily concocted plan to solve an easily rectifiable problem - being so inept and ill-equipped for such a petty crime – their idiocy had led to a brutal double murder… …and yet, even before they had entered the flat, all three men were already in too deep. 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.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
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 NINE-ONE:
Back in 1968, Flat 35 on the fifth floor was a stylish two-bedroomed apartment owned by newly-weds; 53-year-old stockbroker Michael O’Carroll and 25-year-old model Janet Williams. Being a secure home, these flats have buzzers, intercoms, cameras, porters and service bells to ensure the residents safety. But on Tuesday 12th March 1968 - as many homes have - Flat 35 was burgled. It had been planned as a simple get in-grab it-and get out caper, so this should have been an easy job for the robbers. But being planned by a gang who were both inept and ill-equipped, their home invasion would turn from a hostage situation into a brutal double murder.
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 bright green raindrop above the north side of Hyde Park. 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.
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on the Bayswater Road, W2; two streets east of the stabbing of Stanley Thurman, three streets south-east of the final night of Emmy Werner, a short walk from the torture of Vincent Keighrey, and three streets west of the dark secrets of Orme Court - coming soon to Murder Mile. Overlooking Hyde Park is Falmouth House; an eight-storey square-block of posh flats for the cash-rich and tax-shy, built in 1960. Made of brown brick with white sills and jutting balconies, it resembles the kind of place a sports pundit would put his feet up having spent ninety whole minutes telling millions what they’ve just seen, where a dodgy politician secretes the secretary he’s not so secretly shagging, and a slew of ‘proud to be British’ bankers who bonk their loot having bet that the Pound will collapse as yet another bafflingly inept Prime Minister of the Week cripples our currency by being utterly shit. Maybe one day we’ll hire an experienced business person to run Britain, rather than a self-obsessed careerist shitbag, who only wants to be leader because their Latin tutor at Eton called them an idiot? Back in 1960, Flat 35 – a two-bedroomed flat on the fifth floor with views of Hyde Park – cost £20000. Today, its selling for £3.3 million. Paying for the location but also to be secure; there are buzzers to let you in, keys to let you out, intercoms to screen any strangers, cameras to watch for weirdoes, a service bell for if you need help, and 24-hour porters who know the names and faces of every resident. In August 1967, two newly-weds, Michael O’Carroll, a stockbroker and Janet Williams, a model moved into Flat 35. This stylish apartment in a secure building in a well-to-do neighbourhood was to be their forever home, where they would nurture their happiness and love having planned to start a family. On Tuesday 12th March 1968 - as many homes have - their flat was burgled. But being a half-baked robbery by a band of incompetents with a hastily concocted plan to solve an easily rectifiable problem - being so inept and ill-equipped for such a petty crime – their idiocy would lead to a double murder. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 195: In Too Deep – Part One. A plan. It doesn’t need to be much to ensure it doesn’t go all arse-about-tit. It’s simple; a little research, some common sense, a dash of patience, a solid leader and a team with experience and skill. It’s not fool-proof, nothing is… but anything is better than three bumbling idiots of mind-numbing stupidity. Michael St John O’Carroll was a 53-year-old partner at Carroll & Co, a successful city stock-brokers. Being smart, confident and a risk-taker, his business was solid but (as the industry is) unpredictable. As a stylish gent’, he wore sharp suits from Saville Row, drove a flash silver Lancia convertible, ate in only the finest restaurants and holidayed on private islands. But unwilling to admit his age, as a shrewd negotiator who never showed weakness, he hid his balding head with a neat brown toupee. With his work having dominated his world, his family-life had suffered. In early 1967, having separated from his wife (Clare); he left behind their two sons aged 16 and 19, their home (a modern detached house in Arthur Road overlooking Wimbledon Park) and the divorce proceedings were pending. As a high-powered businessman with so much to gain or lose in the blink of an eye, few people knew of his problems; as he hid them behind a cheeky grin, a jocular laugh and a light-hearted dig at himself. The biggest secret he harboured though… was that he was lonely. Born in Westhide, seven miles outside of Hereford, Janet Alice Williams was the second youngest of three daughters and two sons who came from humble beginnings. With her dad (George) working at a parcel delivery depot, these hard-working parents ensured their children were well-educated, and therefore Janet (as the school prefect) graduated in 1958 from Bromyard Grammar with six o’levels. Gifted with a maternal nature, it was no surprise that she worked as auxiliary nurse at Hereford County Hospital, and later she retrained as an English and PE teacher at several schools in St John’s Wood, Croydon and East London. She was making a good life for herself, but her ambitions were much bigger. Being blonde, pretty and petite; Janet Williams had been screen-tested at Pinewood Studios with her dream to break into TV and films. And with her agent describing her as “beautiful girl with perfect features and a slim figure”, she was on the way to securing a £10,000 a year contract as a model. It’s uncertain when it happened, but having lost interest in her modelling career, whilst working as an escort girl; 25-year-old Janet Williams met 53-year-old Michael O’Carroll, and the two fell in love. To say it was a whirlwind romance would be an understatement. Everybody knew they planned to marry, but with his divorce petition not due to be heard until 31st March 1968, five months earlier on the 27th October; they had secretly married in Rome, they had honeymooned at his villa on the Mediterranean island of Elba, Janet Williams had changed her name by Deed Poll to Janet O’Carroll (until they could be legally married under English law) and in September 1967, they had moved into a stylish and elegant flat at Falmouth House on the Bayswater Road. Having had them up to his Hereford home a few weeks prior, Janet’s father would later state of Mr & Mrs O’Carroll “I’ve never seen a couple so happy and well suited”. Their lives were going well, and – having been conceived on their honeymoon – soon enough, their first baby together would be born. Although a few months pregnant – wanting their wedding dance to be something special – Michael & Janet took lessons at the Arthur Murray School at 167 Oxford Street, supervised by a Mr David Bolton; an instructor of tango, rumba and the polka who Janet knew from when she was a nightclub hostess. Having enrolled on 29th November, twelve lessons in, Dave the instructor noted “they were a charming couple who were progressing well”, and keen to excel, they had signed up for ten more lessons. It was a romantic dance destined to mark the birth of their wonderful life together… …and yet, it was the seed which sewed the start of their agonising deaths. 30-year-old David Colvan Bolton made a modest living as a dance instructor and he lived with his wife in a small flat above a shop at 79 High Road in South Tottenham. Or, at least he was… until the February of 1968. Having lost his job at the Arthur Murray School for reasons unknown, his landlord had taken him to court for being £50 in rent arrears, and had given 28 days to pay otherwise he would be evicted. As a cocky lad who despised the rich but wanted wealth, who stumbled through life but blamed others for his failings – like so many petty criminals who resorted to stealing rather than working hard – Dave (as he liked to be called) often had ‘get rich quick’ scam on the go, of which he was the mastermind. Sorry, did I say mastermind? I meant moron. Dave was all-mouth no-trousers; a wannabe Mister Big who would bulldoze through his ill-conceived schemes like a cow hijacking a milk-float. Fuelled by anger and jealousy, this bargain basement Buster Edwards only thought of the loot, and - in short - he couldn’t organise an orgy in a busy brothel. Barely six months before the robbery, Dave had (unwittingly) begun recruiting his gang. To ensure his success, he could have browsed the Big Book of London’s Bad Lads to find a few hoods well-versed in breaking and entering. But instead, he opted for two desperate dickheads without a brain-cell-a-piece. Michael David Ellis was a 22-year-old unemployed swimming instructor from Putney, who sometimes fenced stolen items and nicked chequebooks, but if you mentioned his name to the Met Police, they’d be likely to reply “who?”. He dressed like a flashy wanker and blew his cash faster than wrinkling WAG. And just two weeks before the robbery – needing a third man, as possibly they didn’t feel that two dense numpties were enough to bungle a simple burglary – they roped in a pal of Mike’s named Ray. Raymond David Cohen was a 23-year-old unemployed trainee football coach who still lived at home with his dad in Wandsworth. Being a skinny bespectacled lad who was easily led, he dressed well and spoke well, but he had about as much experience of burglary as a blind hermit with agoraphobia. And this was the gang; Dave, Mike and Ray – three instructors of dancing, swimming and football, who thought big but planned little, and probably liked to believe they were the South London version of Ocean’s Eleven, but were more akin to the Paddling Pool Three, or the Festering Canal Water Few. You may think I’m over-emphasising their criminal incompetence for comic effect? But I’m not. On Monday 11th March 1968, Dave, Mike & Ray set-out to burgle a sub post office off the Great West Road, just beside of Brentford football ground. Based on Dave’s precision planning (and yes, I’m being sarcastic); they would break into the house of a sub-postmaster, steal his keys to the safe, swipe all his loot (not only cash, but also stamps, coupons and postal orders - ooh) and speed away unseen. But having blown an hour bumbling around this unoccupied house with the lights off and one torch between them; they couldn’t find the key. So, they left empty handed and drove back to Dave’s flat in Tottenham, having wasted a few shillings on fuel and wrecked Ray’s dodgy brakes and rattling exhaust. At 4am, in the early hours of Tuesday 12th March 1968, Dave, Mike & Ray – being less of a Pink Panther and more of a Moth-Eaten Mauve Moggy – decided they needed a simpler job for their simple brains. Being tired, hungry, high on adrenaline and having barely slept in 24-hours, Dave – the “man with the plan” – suggested a robbery he had mooted a few days before. The target was a wealthy stockbroker who lived with his wife in a stylish Bayswater flat; they had money, jewellery, cash and two new cars. Dave knew this as a fact, as he had already seen inside their flat, as just two weekends prior, Mr & Mrs O’Carroll had a little drinks soiree at Falmouth House, of which their dance instructor was a guest. He hadn’t twigged it at the time, but given access via the side door’s intercom; he had swiftly entered unbothered through the entrance hall, passed the porter, up in the lift to the fifth floor, and with the door to Flat 35 opened without hesitation by Janet (who had seen his face through the spy-hole); he knew that she liked him, she would open the door to him and that during the day she would be alone. The plan was simple: get in, grab the loot and get out. I mean, what could go wrong? Nothing… …except; being sleep-deprived, they had planned to commit their brazen heist in barely seven hours’ time; leaving no space to rehearse, plan or prepare for something they had never done before. They had no tools, no bags, no binds, no gags, no gloves, no overalls and - worse still - no disguises (not even hats), as well as no back-up plan should anything (or everything) go wrong and no escape plan. Apart from that… it was be perfect. Tuesday 12th March began as uneventful as any other for Mr & Mrs O’Carroll. Wearing a grey three-piece suit, Michael left for work at 8am in his silver Lancia. Dressed in mauve slacks and a blue checked shirt, Janet would have a leisurely morning; watching TV, listening to music and resting, as being five-month pregnant she was starting to show. But they would meet at 1pm for lunch, as already planned. At 11:10am, arriving in two cars (for no logical reason), Ray parked his rattly Austin Healey at a parking meter on Clarendon Place, within sight of the side entrance to Falmouth House. Where-as Dave – who knew Janet – parked his discrete canary yellow Consul several streets away. Why? We have no idea. The robbery seemed like a sure-thing, as Ray would later state: “at the front of the flats, we didn’t need to call on the intercom because a man was delivering furniture, hence the front door was open”. Entering, all three were dressed in dark mismatched suits like wartime spivs with nothing to hide their identity; no wigs, no beards, no glasses and – being a bitterly cold morning – not even hats or scarves. Admittedly, they could have worn balaclavas, but they’d probably have carried just one to share. Inside reception, greeted by the porter Joseph Buckley, when he asked “what flat do you want?”, like massive idiots they replied “Flat 35, O’Carroll” - as burglars always tell security who they plan to rob. Having gained entry to the lift, the plan was simple. Ray would state: “we proceeded up to floor 5”, where Dave got out, rang the bell for Flat 35 and was let in (as expected) by Janet. “We intended to go up one floor and come back down again to the fifth, giving Dave enough time”. But bamboozled by its buttons, the lift returned to the ground floor, where they were again greeted by the porter, Jabbing button ‘five’ till the doors shut again, Ray & Mike returned to ‘fifth’ to begin the burglary. Ray: “we rang the bell, Mrs O’Carroll answered it and Mike asked for Dave”. Opening the door, “she looked surprised, before she could say anything, Dave had come up behind her, put his hand around her mouth, dragged her back into the lounge. Thereupon we entered and locked the door behind us”. Their entry should have been swift and silent, but having smashed a glass mirror in the hall, although neighbours described hearing a “unidentified noise and stamping in the flat”, no-one raised the alarm. Inside of Flat 35, this spacious two-bedroomed apartment was elegant, stylish and sparkled with goods they could fence; a colour TV, a deluxe radiogram and an ornate drinks trolley. But knowing they were too big to lug about – with no bags for the swag – their smartest move was to fill their pockets with cash, cards, cheques, car keys – and as Dave had said “her jewellery alone is worth 10 to 15 grand”. With the robbery going okay, as Dave tied Janet’s ankles and wrists with Michael’s ties (as these half-wits hadn’t brought any of their own), as her dance instructor reassured her “sit down and no-one will harm you”; she believed him as she knew him… but from this point on, there was no turning back. Ray: “Mike & I looked around… and found some jewellery, some cash, a Barclaycard, a cheque book, a Harrods card and a set of keys for her Mini. We asked for the cars log books and she told us. She also said she had a lunch appointment with her husband at 1pm” - which gave the robbers an hour at best. Ray: “I noticed a pill bottle in the bedroom and assumed she was pregnant”. Not being monsters, they kept her calm, let her sit in the comfy lounge chair and assured her they’d be in and out in minutes. That was the plan they had agreed to barely a few hours before… …but it was then that the plan changed. All in, Dave thought they could probably nick twenty maybe thirty grands worth, which today would be a quarter of a million quid, about right from a wealthy stockbroker? Only Dave was not a jeweller, he was a ballroom dancer who couldn’t tell a 24-carat diamond from a cracked marble. So, instead of ‘get in, grab it and get out’ as planned, he wanted to wait for the loot to be examined by an expert. At 12:15pm, Ray was sent to see a fence called Harry Rutter at 11 Kenway Road in Earls Court. Ray: “I drove to Harry’s… for a diamond ring, a chequebook, a Barclaycard, a Harrod’s card, a pearl necklace, a dress ring, a pendant watch, a pair of cultured pearl earrings, an Omega watch and a bracelet…”, he expected a sizable wodge of notes, but as most of it was second-hand, fake and the cards and cheques were in Janet’s name – and in the 1960s, few women even had a bank account so that made these items almost impossible to shift – instead of getting tens of thousands in cash, “Harry gave us £220”. Split between three, it sorted out Dave’s debt… but robbers don’t do a heist to clear their overdraft. At 1:30pm, holding an embarrassingly thin stack of tenners, driving his rattly Austin Healey “I took my car over to a garage to get my brakes relined and a new exhaust. Then I took a cab back to the flat”, leaving this dunce-hatted band of desperadoes with only one getaway car for this half-witted heist. Inside Flat 35, with Janet still tied up and gagged, Ray grabbed himself a drink: “I think it was a Scotch”, before he dispensed the bad news and handed his dejected pals a floppy pile of seven tenners each. And that was it… (phone rings) …a burglary which bagged them barely enough cash to last a week. Cutting their loses, they could have left right then, by blackmailing Janet, or threatening to hurt her husband if she went to the police? …but again, Dave changed the plan. Ray: “the phone rang, but nobody answered it. Dave said it had rung before. Five minutes later, it rang again. Dave thought it was Mr O’Carroll phoning because his wife hadn’t met him for lunch. It was then presumed that he would return home, so we took turns watching through the door spy hole”. As a city stockbroker who wore fancy suits, gold watches and drove a silver sportscar, they knew the second he saw his pregnant wife, tied up and gagged, he would give them access to his bulging bank account if they promised to let her go. This slight change would lead to the pay day they demanded. At a little after 2pm, Michael entered Flat 35, “Jan? Jan, you okay love?” Seeing her on the sofa, Dave grabbed him from behind, tied him up with ties and tights (taken from the bedroom), and threatening him with a carving knife (taken from the kitchen), he repeated “stay quiet and no-one will harm you”. Off his wrist, Dave took a Vertex watch, later sold for £10. From his pocket, he took £5 in notes and gave the wallet back. Ray: “Dave then proceeded in asking Mr O’Carroll to give him money”. Access to his cards, his bank accounts, everything, otherwise Janet would be hurt. This threat should have made him white with fear, but all it did was make him red with shame. As a newly-wed, pending a divorce with two mortgages, a new wife, an ex-wife to be, two teenage boys and a baby on the way, he’d got nothing. In fact, he’d got less than nothing, Michael was £3000 in debt (£61000 today). “And in the calm way in which Mr O’Carroll answered this question, Dave believed he was telling the truth”. And so, with everything having gone to shit, their twice-changed plan had to change… again. Needing time, at 2:30pm, Dave got Michael to call his work stating: “I won’t be back today, Jan’s not feeling great”. Having done as they demanded, Michael’s assistant thought he sounded “normal, but concerned”. And therefore, no-one would know they were being held hostage for at least a day. With the bank account inaccessible, the jewels worth little, and the cards and cheques having caused ructions with the fence who now demanded his money back as the police had started sniffing about, all this incompetent gang of slightly sleepy arseholes had left was two almost new cars – a 1966 two-year-old Mini brought for £680, and a 1964 four-year-old Lancia Flavia convertible brought for £1900. The plan was to sell them… but there lied another cock-up. Owing to the city traffic, these dim-witted dingleberries hadn’t twigged that Michael had driven into work in his Lancia, but (keen to get back quick) he had taken the tube back to his Bayswater flat, leaving his car three-and a-half miles away. Taking the Mini’s keys – as well as Janet’s driving licence, proof of ownership and the car’s log-book - at 3:30pm, Mike Ellis drove the Mini around town, to flog it off to some of the car dealers he knew. Anxiously waiting, as their pay-day had been a disaster; Dave & Ray paced the flat, keeping tabs on their hostages and wondering how their half-baked plan concocted a few hours earlier had gone so spectacularly wrong. Being tired and hungry, Ray would state: “I cooked a dinner for Janet and myself. She had a couple of eggs and Ryvita, and I had some corn on the cobb”, and to wile-away the time, the gang had a drink, a smoke and popped on some music – touching everything with their bare hands. Only, that hour spent waiting would be time wasted. Mike couldn’t sell this nearly-new mint-condition Mini for love nor money: “Gordon Guest, a car dealer in Kingston had offered £250, but rejected the offer as “there were too many irregularities”; like Mike Ellis wanted the money in cash, he wanted it today and he couldn’t explain why if this was his wife’s car, why the owner was called Janet O’Carroll. On-route, Mike fenced the Vertex watch to Harry Rutter, but getting into a spat with him about the bank card in Janet’s name: “I had to pay him back a tenner from the £220 he’d already give us”. At roughly 4:30pm - as Ray had done barely three hours earlier - Mike returned empty-handed. This half-witted gang of utter incompetents had risked everything on a half-baked plan… …and it had failed, leaving them with nothing but a missing car and two bored hostages. (End) Over the next few hours – from their miniscule haul of £210 - Dave paid back his landlord, Mike stayed in a few West End hotels and Ray got a tout’s ticket to see Chelsea beat Sheffield Wednesday two-nil. The only piece of luck that Ray had was getting the Lancia, as although it was in a secure car park; the parking ticket was on the dashboard, the doors were unlocked and the keys were in the ignition. With the attendant believing his story that “it’s my uncle’s car”, Ray drove it out, paying the 7 shillings fee. The new plan was to meet later, at Dave’s flat, and to work out where they could sell the Lancia. While Ray watched football, Dave & Mike sat alone in Flat 35, wondering how to get themselves out of this utter mess. With Janet & Michael O’Carroll tied up and gagged, the inexperience of this dance instructor and a trainee football coach shone through – as what can you do with two hostages that you can’t extort for money and can’t blackmail into silence, who know your names and faces? Nothing. At 10pm, as planned, Mike & Ray met at Dave’s flat in Tottenham. Ray would state: “he suggested that Mike & I took the car to Glasgow. We left virtually immediately”. Never questioning why, “we went straight through to Glasgow, stopping a couple of times for snacks and arrived by the morning”. That was the new plan, as having already silenced the hostages, they would sell the Lancia for cash. But unbeknownst to Ray, the plan had already changed without him … …as by that point, this gang of incompetents were in too deep. Part two of In Too Deep continues next week. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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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 NINE-FOUR:
Off Edwardes Square in Kensington, W8 lies Pembroke Court, a six-storey art-deco apartment-block built in the 1920s. Back in 1962, the basement flat at 17 Pembroke Court was owned by George Brinham; a respected trade unionist and chairman of the Labour Party, who was hailed as a Prime Minister in the making. And yet, there is no blue plaque to George Brinham. Some might say this was down to his political affiliations, others might imply it was owing to his love life, but maybe it’s simply down to a scandal which on Saturday 17th November 1962, led to his murder. But why was George Brinham killed, and did a quirk of the law let his murderer go free?
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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. SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. https://discovery.nationxalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C3756355 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C9438404 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4204182 https://www.britishpathe.com/video/VLVA4503G3IEM7WK6M9MFB5NTUQMW-UK-SCARBOROUGH-OPENING-DAY-OF-THE-LABOUR-PARTY-CONFERENCE/query/Scarborough
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Edwardes Square in Kensington, W8; four roads north of the killing of Churchill’s super spy Krystyna Skarbek, a short walk east of the former school of the victim of The Beast (Katerina Koneva), a few streets west of the basement where the McSwan family were dissolved in acid, and just a few doors down from the killer who couldn’t say ‘goodbye’ - coming soon to Murder Mile. Hidden away off Kensington High Street, Edwardes Square is a posh little place; a manicured private garden surrounded by townhouses, mostly owned by stiff starchy chin-stroking twits who dawdle and drone through galleries about a piece’s “exquisite composition”, not realising they’re staring at a bin. Given its long history as the homes of the well-to-do, many buildings have blue plaques. Organised by a committee of old grey men, these plaques often celebrate a tenuous link to someone long dead and forgotten, half of whom make the bemused passers-by think and state “nope, never heard of him”. Off Edwardes Square lies Pembroke Court, a six-storey art-deco apartment-block built in the 1920s. Back in 1962, the basement flat at 17 Pembroke Court was owned by George Brinham; a respected trade unionist and chairman of the Labour Party, who was hailed as a Prime Minister in the making. He was a man who was making waves and a name, and yet, there is no blue plaque to George Brinham. Some might say this was down to his political affiliations, others might imply it was owing to his love life, but maybe it’s simply down to a scandal which on Saturday 17th November 1962, led to his murder. But why was George Brinham killed, and did a quirk of the law let his murderer go free? My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 194: The Gay Panic. On 5th July 1967 at 5:50am, the Sexual Offences Act passed in the House of Commons, a bill purported to decriminalise homosexuality and equalise a person’s legal status regardless of sexual orientation. As a gay man, George would die five years before this decriminalisation, and in an era where it was acceptable to use homophobia as a legal defence… …it is referred to as ‘the gay panic’. George Ivor Brinham was born on 31st January 1917 in Brixham, Devon, one of the smallest and most southerly towns in the south-west of England. Raised by Elijah a fisherman, and Annie a housewife, George was one of three siblings raised in a loving family, with his brother Harry and sister Charlotte. From his hard-working parents, at an early age, George learned the value of loyalty and love, but also how even a little lad from the back-end of nowhere could (and should) stand up for the rights of the average person. Unlike his contemporaries who ascended to the political elite having had mummy and daddy board them at posh public schools like Harrow or Eton, George left school aged 14 with a basic education, but bolstered his knowledge with evening classes and a wealth of personal experience. By living his life and learning from those around him, George became the man he would become. As a high-achiever who came from little, George made the most of every opportunity. In 1932, aged 15, he became an apprentice joiner at Bluebeer & Merchant in Brixham, staying for five years, learning new skills, becoming the shop steward and – already being politically active – the senior union rep. In 1933, aged just 16, as a slightly shy boy, he knocked on the door of politician Mrs F M Chudsey and stammered “would it be possible for me to join the Labour Party?”. And thus his political career began. Being well-dressed and softly spoken, he impressed his seniors. But regarded by some as a ‘scrapper’ and by others as ‘a trouble maker’ - mostly by those who never wanted any change to the status quo which benefitted managers and maligned the workers – George was young, smart and hungry. Aged 19, he became honorary secretary of the Torquay Labour Party. During war-time, he represented Torquay at the annual Labour Party conference, he formed the first local committee of Shipbuilding & Engineering unions, he was trade union rep on the Admiralty Shipyard Control Advisory Committee - all in his early-to-mid-twenties – and in 1944, he was appointed Justice of the Peace, the youngest at that time, and elected to Brixham Urban Council, where he served as counsellor for three years. In his spare-time, he studied economics and local government affairs, eventually becoming a tutor and fellow of the Royal Economic Society. In 1952, he was elected to the National Labour Party Executive, becoming its youngest member. In 1955, having joined the Amalgamated Society of Woodworkers, he became its youngest ever chairman and later its president. And by 1959, aged just 42, George Brinham - a young shy lad from a small fishing town – had become the youngest Chairman of the Labour Party. Physically, as a slim neat man with dark well-groomed hair and a sharp suit, he was not a formidable sight. But undeniably, he was a charismatic man who was devoted to the fight for worker’s rights. The stratospheric career of George Brinham was public and well documented. And yet his private life was not. As a gay man, in an era when it was a criminal offence to be gay; his private life was a dirty little secret known by few who kept it hidden including himself and (possibly) by his party… …until a seedy scandal led to his death. On paper, George did not have a criminal record for acts which - in the 1950s & 60s – were illegal. According to declassified police records; in 1956, a Naval Rating claimed he was picked up in Hyde Park and at the Tregaron Hotel in Bayswater, George paid him 10 shillings to engage in masturbation. George was questioned, he denied any indecency and he was released with no charges against him. In 1958, an unnamed guardsman alleged that George had attempted to commit buggery upon him at his flat at 17 Pembroke Court. The incident was investigated by the Special Investigation Branch of the Army, but with no corroborative evidence and George denying it took place, no charges were made. And in December 1961, an unnamed youth who had claimed he was paid £5 on several occasions for sex was arrested having broken into the flat. George denied knowing him and the case was closed. As a gay man, his options on how he could pick up men was limited to those which were illegal. Unlike others, with high-ranking friends in most government departments, it’s likely that these scandals were silenced for fear of ruining his career and the reputation of the party. But being so well-insulated, this protection is likely to have led to George being a lot less cautious about his illegal sexual activities. In May 1958, George moved into 17 Pembroke Court in Edwardes Square, W8. Although he had lived there for four years, few of his neighbours knew this shy quiet man… but they all knew he was gay. Lacking any discretion, often on weekends, George would drive a lew of handsome young men, some in uniform, in his Blue Ford Colsul from Soho and surrounding areas to his secluded flat in Kensington. Witnessing his homosexual shenanigans, Mrs Christina Ansell of Flat 14 gave an account to the Police. (Christina): “He’d not been living there long before I noticed that he was having a number of different young men call upon him in his flat. I remember a Saturday afternoon about 18 months ago, I was sitting in my bedroom with the windows open. I heard a young man’s voice shout “you’re hurting me” It sounded as if the young man was distressed. Then immediately afterwards I heard a struggle”. Informing Mrs Lucy Alcock the caretaker, this suspected assault was reported to the landlords, but as Mr Brinham was a good tenant, they simply asked him to be quieter from that point on. George had an appetite for young men, which was not dissuaded by nosey neighbours or a copper’s questions. Whatever went on in his private little flat – whether rough sex, or saddo masochism – it didn’t dampen his ardour for lusting after young men, he just made it less obvious to the sticky beaks who blabbed to the police. With the windows shut and the curtains closed, Christina would state “when I saw him bringing in young men, shortly after entering the flat, I would hear music being played very loudly”. Lucy recalled “…I heard screaming coming from the flat, and as the screams got louder, the volume of the music was turned up. It was always the same music, which would last about 15 minutes, then all would be quiet again. I would see him and a young man go out and get into his car and drive away”. It happened so often that the neighbours stopped reporting it. As Christina would state: “with all this activity, it was obvious to me that this man was a homosexual… but we just had to put up with it”. And yet, the lacklustre way in which George conducted his secret sex life also made him an easy target. In October 1962 - eleven months after an unnamed rent-boy was released having broken into George’s flat – either a different boy or the same boy had committed a burglary, stealing items from his home. A neighbour saw George repairing the broken window to his rear basement bedroom, and when he asked if he had informed the Police, George replied “no, it’s no good, they won’t do anything”. In 1962, with homosexuality illegal, and gays regarded as little more than sadistic sexual deviants who corrupted decent society with their ungodly ways, George knew he was an easy target; he had money, he was slightly built, and – having a flat filled with erotic art and gay porn – he was easy to blackmail. And as the punishment for homosexuality was more severe than it was for burglary, he knew his sexuality would most likely be used against him, and any public exposure would risk ruining his career. Even as a victim of crime, in this era, George would be seen in a court of law as culpable. And yet, barely three weeks later, he would be murdered in his own flat… …and the culprit’s defence would be ‘the gay panic’. Also known as Homosexual Panic Disorder, Psychiatrist Edward J. Kempf coined the term in 1920 to define "a panic due to the pressure of uncontrollable perverse sexual cravings". Accepted in British courts as a legal strategy, a defendant could claim to have been provoked into committing an act of violence, in self-defence, because of the unwanted sexual advances of a person of the same sex. In the UK, it has been known for decades as the ‘Portsmouth defence’ or the ‘guardsman's defence’. But was this solely a strategy used to defend the murderer of George Brinham… …or was George chosen as a victim of crime because the law made him an easy target? Saturday 17th November 1962 was George’s last day alive. He wouldn’t know that, and neither would his murderer, as both men seemingly went about their ordinary day. At roughly half-past-two, George met a young man called Laurence Somers, outside of a gunsmith near The Strand, by Covent Garden. Laurence would state: “this fellow just started talking to me. I didn’t know who he was. He offered me a cigarette”. George was a 45-year-old unionist, Laurence was a 16-year-old boy from a broken home. For whatever reason – whether kindness, boredom or seeing an opportunity to commit a minor crime – “we went into a few cafes, then he asked me back to his flat for a drink and we both had a couple of bottles of brown ale each”. According to Laurence, both men were strangers and he was not gay. Bottles of brown ale were found in the flat, with fingerprints corroborating his story. “Then we went to the pictures; it was the Coliseum you know”, a grand picture on St Martin's Lane, “Tarzan and Aladdin was on. We came out of the pictures and went round a few pubs. I had a good bit to drink. It would be getting on for ten o’clock at night and we went back to his flat for a drink”. Having heard George’s Blue Ford Consul pull-up on Edwardes Square, the neighbours at Pembroke Court paid no attention, as this middle-aged man led a scruffy young boy into his basement flat. And, as would often happen, the night would follow a very familiar routine of drink, sex and screams. As a predatory male with a penchant for young boys, George wanted Laurence. But why was Laurence there? Laurence Thomas Somers was born in Ireland on the 28th June 1946. As the eldest of five, to a battered mother and an abusive father described as ‘an aggressive psychopath’, his childhood was short and cruel. Being quick-tempered and emotionally cold, he lacked trust in others and struggled to cope. In 1957, five years prior to George’s murder, his parents had separated, his mother had sued his father on the grounds of cruelty, and they moved into a council house on the Hurst Farm Estate in Matlock. Affected by the family’s split, he began a spate of minor crimes; on 2nd January 1958, aged 11, he was discharged from Matlock Juvenile Court for stealing chocolate; on 27th January 1960, aged 13, he was given two years’ probation for stealing a motorbike in Derby, and on 23rd February 1961, aged 14, he received a further two years’ probation for the theft of a National Assistance book and £7 in cash. Laurence was little more than a lost youth lacking love and a male role model. A few months prior; he had moved into a lodging at 41 Winchester Street in Victoria which he shared with his psychotic father, he worked irregular hours as a pub cellarman, and had a rocky relationship with his current girlfriend. And now – for reasons unknown to anyone but him – he was in the flat of a predatory homosexual. But why? At 10pm - with the windows shut, the doors locked and the curtains closed - George began to entertain his young guest, as Laurence removed his coat and gloves. (Laurence): “This chap told me his name was George. We had a few more drinks, we talked and played records” (Music on) As always, with the same tune muffling every sound, the neighbours didn’t complain as they knew it wouldn’t last long. George’s flat was elegantly decorated with stylish furnishings, the radiogram was new and with the sideboard and walls covered in homo-erotic art of naked men wrestling, Laurence must have known that George was gay. Or, either he didn’t know, didn’t care, or just thought he was posh and cultured? From a heavy crystal decanter, George poured them both a few-fingers of finest brandy, as this man and boy sat chatting in the sitting room, supping boozy drinks, as the music enveloped every sound. Laurence: “he asked me to stay the night with him and I said I wouldn’t”. Nearby, a stash of gay porn lay in a drawer; with titles like Beau and Sir Gay, they depicted muscle-bound hunks in posing pouches engaged in passionate homoerotic postures with other naked men - it was clear what this was. Laurence shifted awkwardly on the sofa: “...the man made improper advances. He put his arms around me and said ‘give us a kiss’. Coming from a man, I thought that was improper”. Dressed in just a white vest and black trousers, at some point George loosened his braces, as they were later found undone. Unnerved, Laurence got up and stood across the other side of the room by the sideboard, but George followed him: “anyway he kept on at me, and he tried to take hold of my privates”. Panicked at being sexually assaulted by a male stranger, “I got the bottle from the side”, it was the heavy glass decanter, “I pushed him away”, but George came at him again, “I belted him a number of times over his head”. Smashed over his head three times with a two-kilo decanter, as the glass was intact, his skull fractured taking the full force, as rivers of blood streamed down his face, into his eyes and onto his white shirt. “He ran towards the door in the hall, but as he was trying to unfasten it, he collapsed”. Evidence shows that George was hit over the head, again in the hallway using the glass decanter. “I dragged him back into the living room”, where he lay unconscious, “and left him there on his back. I did not expect that kind of thing from a man. I hit him to get away. I didn’t mean to kill him”, Laurence would state. With the music still on, the neighbours heard nothing. Laurence: “I stood and thought what I was going to do. I was in a bit of a panic. I thought I would make it look like a burglary. I opened drawers and threw everything all over the place. After this I just ran out and slammed the door behind me”. Laurence had escaped a buggering, but it was only after he had left the flat that he remembered – in his panic to escape - he had left his coat and gloves on George’s bed. But by then, it was too late. The next morning, Laurence stole a van and fled to his mothers in Matlock. With the curtains closed, the lights on, the radiogram having silenced and with no witnesses to the murder, George’s flat looked occupied but quiet for the next few days. On Thursday 22nd November 1962, George was due to a meeting at the Amalgamated Society of Woodworkers, but as he didn’t arrive, the caretaker of the TUC alerted the fire-brigade, and at 3:15pm, his body was found. The investigation was simple; with nothing of any obvious value stolen, the flat had been ransacked to look like a burglary. But in his panic, the attacker had left his coat and gloves. Initially arrested for the theft of van stolen in Finchley one day after the murder, 16-year-old Laurence Thomas Somers was questioned, and his fingerprints matched those inside George’s flat and on the glass decanter. He was charged with unlawful killing and made no reply. But would ‘the gay panic’ be used solely a strategy to defend the murderer of George Brinham… …or was George chosen as a victim of crime because the law made him an easy target? The trial began at The Old Bailey on 18th December 1962, two weeks after George’s funeral. Presented before Mr Justice Paull, the timeline and evidence was clear, and neither the defence nor prosecution would query whether Laurence had smashed George over the head with a glass decanter. He had, and he had admitted it. The question was one of provocation – was this a wilful murder, or a manslaughter by self-defence, committed whilst being sexually assaulted by a man and in the grip of a ‘gay panic’? Unlike any other trial, the murderer was depicted as a young innocent boy who had fled an ungodly act, with the victim (now dead and defenceless) described as an old pervert who preyed on the young. With Laurence as the sole witness to the attack – this could have been the truth, a lie or an alibi - and yet, they did not question Laurence’s history, his sexuality or his motive. Four witnesses were called, none of whom seen or heard anything; Christine & Frederick Ansell of Flat 14 and Lucy Alcock of Flat 18 could only testify to the “screams” and the “indecent acts” George had committed upon vulnerable young men in the weeks and months prior. With a fourth witness, whose name was redacted, believed to be the unnamed Naval Rating who George had paid for sex. Disregarded as contradictory evidence of any credence; it wasn’t questioned why Laurence’s coat and gloves were on George’s bed, or why the blood spatter wasn’t predominantly found by the side-board (where he was allegedly hit) but by the door – this was taken as the boy’s confusion caused by panic. If provocation could be proven, then the judge decreed that murder had to be ruled out. Presented before the Judge were four key pieces of evidence; the glass decanter, the coat and gloves, and the two statements of Laurence Somers – as you would expect. But the other exhibits accepted into evidence were there to prove that the murder victim was a predatory homosexual. Many of the crime scene photos focussed – not on the body or the blood – but the homoerotic art and gay porn, which was listed in court of law - where everyone is innocent until proven guilty - as “a male pervert’s literature”. The magazines were called into evidence, but it could not be proven if they were used that night. In Laurence’s defence, Edward Clarke QC would state “there is still a plea of not guilty to manslaughter, because there is a defence that you are entitled to kill a man, if he is committing an atrocious crime against you” – suggesting that murder is acceptable if you deem a gay man’s advances as a threat. And yet, the worst evidence was presented by respected pathologist Dr Donald Teare. In his autopsy report, he would state “his genitals were rather small” (which served no purpose but to humiliate), “his anus admitted three fingers” (proving that George had been engaged in the illegal act of buggery), and – most bafflingly of all for a man of science – he stated it wasn’t the decanters toughness which fractured George’s skull, but that “death was due to a thinning skull and in my opinion, the condition was consistent with long-practiced homosexuality or self-inflicted perversion”. There was no medical examination of Laurence, to prove if he had defensive wounds, or had engaged in anal sex. (End) On the 21st January 1963, Mr Justice Paull directed the jury to ignore the charge of murder and said “I cannot see how any jury, properly directed on the evidence can fail to find there was provocation. There is the statement of the lad which shows quite clearly that this man attempted to make homosexual advances, and that in consequence Laurence Somers picked up a decanter and hit him on the head. I should think that is about a clear a case of provocation as it is possible to have”. Found not guilty of manslaughter, the Judge ordered Laurence Somers to be discharged and said to his mother “if possible, find him work in Matlock and take him home. There are dangers in London”. Declared an innocent man, he left The Old Bailey, and – as far as we know - never returned to London. Given the evidence, it’s easy to accept the facts that George’s death occurred they way it has been presented – as it’s likely that it was – but with so much focus on George’s “indecent sexual appetite”, there are a wealth of unanswered questions which weren’t answered. Most importantly; why did a young heterosexual boy agree to visit the secluded flat of a middle-aged homosexual stranger? Was he innocent of sex, of danger, and of gay men? Or was his age a convenient excuse? And if the ‘the gay panic’ was used as a useful alibi - knowing that George would never go to the police, even if he was attacked or burgled - did this failure of the law make him an easy target for a young thief? Laurence Thomas Somers died in Derby in 1999, taking the (possible) truth to his grave. The Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast has been researched using the original declassified police investigation files, court records, press reports and as many authentic sources as possible, which are freely available in the public domain, including eye-witness testimony, confessions, autopsy reports, first-hand accounts and independent investigation, where possible. But these documents are only as accurate as those recounting them and recording them, and are always incomplete or full of opinion rather than fact, therefore mistakes and misrepresentations can be made. As stated at the beginning of each episode (and as is clear by the way it is presented) Murder Mile UK True Crime Podcast is a 'dramatisation' of the events and not a documentary, therefore a certain amount of dramatic licence, selective characterisation and story-telling (within logical reason and based on extensive research) has been taken to create a fuller picture. It is not a full and complete representation of the case, the people or the investigation, and therefore should not be taken as such. It is also often (for the sake of clarity, speed and the drama) presented from a single person's perspective, usually (but not exclusively) the victim's, and therefore it will contain a certain level of bias and opinion to get across this single perspective, which may not be the overall opinion of those involved or associated. Murder Mile is just one possible retelling of each case. Murder Mile does not set out to cause any harm or distress to those involved, and those who listen to the podcast or read the transcripts provided should be aware that by accessing anything created by Murder Mile (or any source related to any each) that they may discover some details about a person, an incident or the police investigation itself, that they were unaware of.
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EPISODE ONE HUNDRED AND NINETY-THREE:
This is 19 Gloucester Avenue (formerly Gloucester Road), Regent’s Park, NW1. Back in 1935, this building was split into three self-contained flats; with a stage manager in the basement, an artist on the first floor and the top two floors owned by single woman, Ms Riley. Feeling lonely in this spacious flat, for three weeks, Louise (her house-sitter) was accompanied by her 20-year old daughter Maxine and Maxine’s boyfriend, 28-year-old Alan Grierson. The morning of Saturday 22nd June 1935 had started much the same as any other. They’d had a cup of tea, a cooked breakfast, and – as Maxine and Alan headed off to work – they had agreed to meet later, to head off on a romantic weekend away in Torquay, as Louise stayed in, to house-it. It was very much an ordinary day… only Louise’s fateful decision to stay behind, would lead to her murder… …and it was all because of a spoiled little brat.
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THE LOCATION
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The location is marked with a black raindrop in the north-east corner of Hyde Park. 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. https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4200901 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1352094 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4166199 https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C4166200
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing in Gloucester Avenue, near Regent’s Park NW1; one street north-east of the bloody killing by the grieving elephant keeper, four doors down from the first possible victim of the Blackout Ripper, one street north-west of the posed body of Gladys ‘Rene’ Hanrahan, and - as an unnervingly similar case in almost that same place - another body would be found - coming soon to Murder Mile. Regent’s Park is a lovely place to rest, relax and read a book. Or it should be, only swarms of piss-poor parents always unleash their shitting spitting little seeds of Satan onto this tranquil idyll, as their over-sugared sexcrement screams “I want, I want, waaaah” as it attempts to stamp to death the park’s wildlife population like veritable a Pol Pot of pigeons. And should anyone dare to chastise said sprog - through a 3pm haze of Valium and vodka – the parent always says “oh leave him, he’s just having fun”. Brats; they cry, they crap, and if you’d bought one in a shop - thinking it’s faulty - you’d take it back. For the first four years of a child’s life, when its personality is forming, it spends most of its time with its parent; listening and learning. If a child turns out to be polite, kind and decent, the parent has every right to proclaim - “oh yes, it’s all down to good parenting, you see?” - as they’ve done the hard work. And yet, should their child - who was born a blank canvas onto which the parent’s morals are projected – should their little angel spawn from a devil in a diaper to a schoolyard Stalin, too often its parent will blame sugar, video-games or music (the bogeymen of each era). Good parents raise good children. But do they? Or, is there much more to be considered? I’m going to tell you a story about a spoiled little brat, a young lad called Alan who was born healthy, raised well and - living a nice life to good parents in a decent family – he had no reason to turn bad. He didn’t suffer with any diseases, poverty, abuse or trauma. So, with no reason to do any wrong, his life should have gone well. But burdened with a sense of privilege, self-entitlement, and arrogance, he had become so fixated on doing what HE wanted, that he would murder a woman in his way. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 193: A Spoiled Brat. Parenting is unlike any other job. To do it; you don’t need a licence, qualifications or training; many parents are thrown-in at the deep-end with no knowledge of whether they will sink or swim; and although most get it right, some get it wrong, and - for a few - a little mistake can turn into tragedy. The morning of Saturday 22nd June 1935 had succeeded a surprisingly sticky night, as a mini-heatwave had gripped the city. At a little after 7am, the residents of 19 Gloucester Road (or Gloucester Avenue as it was later renamed) began to slowly stir from an interrupted slumber after a rough night’s sleep. As a sandstone terraced house on a quiet street, 19 Gloucester Road was a nice place to live. Split into flats; John Moody, a stage manager had the basement; an artist called Gillian Pyall had the first; and Dorothy Riley, a single woman of independent means owned the second and third floors to the top. At 7:30am, in the master bedroom on the third floor, 20-year-old Maxine Gann awoke and headed to the kitchen to make her still sleeping mother a cup of tea, as they were housesitting for Ms Riley. As a slim pretty brunette who the young men flocked to with big grins and bulging pants, although she dreamed of meeting Mr Right - as Maxine was still too naïve to bag a keeper - she lived in Shepherd’s Bush with her dad Stanley, and her short but rather formidable mother, 63-year-old Louise Gann. With her mother snoring, Maxine put a cuppa by the bed and headed down to Ms Riley’s bedroom. Being decorated in all manner of frippery - like lace doilies, delicate trinkets, silver jewellery and a slew of porcelain oddments (with far too many shaped like cats) – her ‘boyfriend’, 28-year-old Alan Grierson looked silly sleeping among this sea of old lady’s finery, but no matter what, she always loved him. Popping on his dark horn-rimmed glasses to absorb her beauty, in a well-mannered voice Alan cooed “good morning Mickey, my sweet” and the two pressed lips, both their cheeks flushed in tandem. Being so deeply smitten after four months together, just four months from this point, Alan & Maxine would be days away from marrying, as this loving young couple prepared for a life-time together. At 8am, over a cooked-breakfast, the two savoured this time together in a posh flat surrounded by all the mod-cons - it was a mirror of how their future could be. And with Maxine in her shop assistant’s uniform, and Alan in a smart blue suit, black shoes and a bright red tie - as a salesman for a prestigious car firm on Great Portland Street - it would be a lot of hard graft, but it would be worth it in the end. At 8:30am, as mother slept soundly, Maxine left 19 Gloucester Road. Having agreed to meet Alan later - to take her on a romantic trip to the seaside town of Torquay - from the landing, he softly whispered “see you at 1:20pm my love” – and the last thing she saw was her lover waving her goodbye. It began as a normal day. It ended with her world destroyed… …and it was all in the name of love, and spite. From 1907 onwards, Alan James Grierson had a blessed upbringing. Born in Shirley, on the north side of Southampton, he was raised in a spacious penthouse flat at 12 Brunswick Terrace overlooking East Park. As the son of Hugh, a prominent solicitor and Emma, a solicitor’s wife; Alan was the youngest of two, whose every whim was cared for by Lucy, a live-in servant. As a privileged boy, he never without… …except, maybe for love. Little is known about his upbringing, so it’s uncertain whether he was ruled with an iron rod, pampered like a preening prince, or was molly-coddled with too much love and not enough oxygen. Undeniably, he had been raised to be well-mannered, cultured and polite. And yet, he was also a spoiled little brat. Growing up, Alan easily fitted the mould of 1920s middle-class gent’; dressed in smart dark suits, bright ties and adopting the slicked-back black hair and horn-rimmed glasses like the silent movie-star Harold Lloyd, Alan had the smooth pale skin of a man who had never done a hard day’s work in his life, and the plummy voice and the slow deliberate gait of a man of leisure, who had not a worry in the world. Alan cared for no-one but himself. From a young age, he stole from his own home to fund his lifestyle. Everything he did was about his wants, his needs and he didn’t care who got hurt in his quest for cash. With no history of criminality, sickness or insanity in the family, he was only injured twice in his life; aged 8, he was briefly being knocked unconscious by a cricket ball, and aged 18, he fell off a motorbike and ended up with a two-inch scar to his skull. Since then, he has felt “perfectly fine” with no ill effects. But what would make a well-manner boy from good home and a private school, go bad? Aged 19, having been released from prison for a string of petty thefts, on 23rd June 1927, his father packed his only son off onboard of the SS Barrabool, a passenger ship bound for Melbourne, Australia. With a small allowance to set-up this ‘family embarrassment’ as far away as possible, Alan arrived all alone, having been banished to an unfamiliar land. It could have been the fresh start that he needed? Only being too lazy to work and too greedy to go straight – after another string of offences – on 11th April 1930, Alan was convicted of four cases of ‘fraud’ and he was sentenced to four years in prison. Released again in 1934, and - with no plans to ‘do the decent thing’ or to think of anyone but himself - he sailed back to Britain, hunkered down in a lodging and continued his life of petty crime in London. On 4th March 1935 at West London Police Court, 28-year-old Alan Grierson, an unemployed ‘clerk’ was sentenced to one month in prison for stealing postal orders. Released on the 1st of April, once again, he was back where he had begun; he was broke, jobless, homeless and an ex-con out on probation. Born with big dreams, Alan wanted everything his life could offer (a lavish home, a fast car, a full bank account and a beautiful wife who loved him without question). And yet, through his own selfishness, Alan had nothing, as this petty little thief had been disowned by every loved one he had stolen from. Three weeks later, Alan Grierson would meet Maxine Gann… …and yet, their undying love would lead to murder. On Saturday 20th April 1935, in a club in Hammersmith, Alan and Maxine met for the very first time and fell in love. For him; she was sweet, pretty, petite and the epitome of the woman of his dreams. For her; he was charming, kind and handsome. But being naïve, she swallowed the story he span about being an ambitious solicitor’s son from a good home, and avoided the less palatable truth of his past. Across the following months - constantly kissing, making her laugh and with her dashing beau forever wooing her with poetry and a tune on his ukulele - Maxine had fallen for Alan, like she had plummeted from the sky. In her eyes, he could do no wrong, as the world unfairly smited their blissful dreams. As Alan struggled to find work - having promised to marry her by her 21st birthday, a few months away - although Maxine was far from wealthy; a badly paid shop-assistant whose mother was a housewife and father was a struggling oyster merchant – out of love; she loaned him money, she gave him hope, she praised his ambitions and – as he had nowhere to live – she would find him a place to stay. Taking a well-earned holiday in Scotland, Ms Riley, the owner of the top-two floors of 19 Gloucester Road near Regent’s Park had entrusted her home to her old friend Louise Gann. Moving in on 2nd June, 63-year-old Louise, known as Bertha was the perfect house-sitter, and – feeling a little lonely – rattling around this grand flat all by herself, she invited Maxine to join her, and later, her daughter’s boyfriend. They would live together for the next three weeks … …but although Maxine loved him blindly, Louise had concerns. Over meals, they sat like a happy little family; the lovers gazing all gooey-eyed and giggling, too full of lust to finish their food, as Louise - short but sturdy at barely 4 foot and 11 inches – smiled politely but said nothing, as her eyes gave a withering look of disapproval. Alan was not the first boyfriend Maxine had brought back, and she hoped he wouldn’t be the last, as she didn’t trust him… and rightly so. Alan’s search for work was always fruitless; a ludicrously long drive up to Manchester to find a job he could acquire in London, followed by a slow drudge back, a whole day wasted and a tank of fuel spent, all funded by yet another loan from Maxine which he always promised to pay back, but didn’t. Alan wanted everything in his dreams; only without the long hours, hard effort or miniscule wage. The answer was staring him in the face. On his first night at 19 Gloucester Road, with Maxine & Louise sharing a bed on the third-floor, and – keen to keep the creeping feet and hanky-panky at bay - Alan was consigned to Ms Riley’s room on the second floor. As a sickening mix of pink lacy chintz, it should have made him wince to bed-down amidst this haberdasher’s orgasm. But it didn’t, it made him drool. Like a child in a chocolate shop, with no money, but quick hands and fast feet, Alan returned to default. Inside a mahogany box lay Ms Riley’s jewellery; consisting of seven gold rings, two gold watches, an assortment of gold bracelets, chains, tie pins, pendants, brooches, lockets and a silver crucifix. They were special to her and cherished. But to him, as she had loads, he didn’t think she’s miss one or two? Four days later, at Jay, Richard Attenborough & Co at 142 Oxford Street, Alan pawned for £5; a gold enamel brooch, a diamond and gem-stone brooch, and a hare diamond and gem-stone ring. With the seller’s slip signed using the name Mr J Hoskisson, a builder who had given him work when he needed it most. £5 was the equivalent of two weeks wage for a man who worked for a living in 1935. As Alan didn’t and his windfall made no sense, Louise went looking and her eagle-eyes spotted the open jewellery box and the missing items, taken from this self-contained flat with only three people living in it. Feeling shamed (mostly for being caught rather than regretting his actions) Alan sent Maxine & Louise a written apology begging ‘Forgive me, Alan’, he enclosed the pawn tickets and Alan’s patent pending ‘cast-iron promise’ that he would get the jewellery back. As always, naively Maxine believed him, just as she believed he would pay back the money she had loaned him. And although, Louise was not best pleased – as her withering glace would testify – at Maxine’s request, he was let back into the house. A little after midnight on 10th June, clutching a little posy for his sweetheart and a box of chocolates for her mum, Alan (who was homeless) skulked back into 19 Gloucester Road with his head hung low. Declaring this little theft as a minor aberration, a one-off moment of sheer madness by a good lad driven to desperation by poverty and shame, a tearful Alan sobbed as he swore on his mother’s life (albeit having not seen or contacted her in years) that he would never steal anything ever again. Returning to the pink chintzy warmth of Ms Riley’s room, Alan slept soundly that night. His mission was clear; to apologise to Louise and to prove his love for Maxine, he would redeem the jewellery… …but first, he needed money. On Thursday 13th June, having dressed in his one best suit, Alan returned home with a little something to celebrate. Having aced the interview, as of Monday, he would begin his career as a salesman for HC Paul, a respected motor firm at 90-92 Great Portland Street. On a decent salary, with his first week’s wage packet in advance, he made a promise to give them £1 each of the £7 they had loaned him, to redeem the jewellery with the second week’s wage, and by the Monday, he was as good as his word. Given a fresh start, Maxine saw only the good in Alan, and to Louise, he seemed like he was trying. He left for work at 9am Mondays to Fridays, and with his wage he treated his girlfriend like a princess. It all seemed to be going well. Too well maybe? And that’s because a spoiled brat will always be a spoiled brat; the gifts were a ruse, the money was stolen, the promise was lost and the job was a lie. As only a two-bedroomed flat, Alan remained in within the temptation of Ms Riley’s room. With the mahogany box now locked by Louise, she didn’t think for a second that he knew how to break in. But he had. On the 17th June, he pawned; a mix of old gold for £1 at A Forsythe in Victoria; a gold locket for £4 and 5s at Sanders in Camden Town; a gold, diamond and emerald cluster ring for £4 at Wallis Davis & Sons, WC1; and each time giving a new alias - A Williamson, Mrs Rauley and even Mrs Gann. But burning through money like he burned through truth, before he knew it, the spoiled brat was broke. Dressed in new suits, quaffing rich foods and glugging fine wines, his fictional wage simply couldn’t cope with his expensive tastes. Up to his eyes in loans and driving a car he had gained through Hire Purchase, this was not his greatest expense, as the couple were already perusing the wedding shops. Alan wanted it all – his dream was so close he could taste it - but needing a stash of quick cash and an easy way to cover his tracks as the mahogany box was almost empty, what he needed was a plan… …and a distraction. On Thursday 20th June, Alan (the kind lad with the good intentions) said he had to drive to the seaside town of Torquay as part of his job, and he wanted to treat Maxine & Louise to a weekend by the beach. The weather was great, a heatwave was looming, and who wouldn’t want to escape a hot city? His plan was simple; meet the ladies somewhere local like Oxford Circus, at a time which meant they’d be at least 30 minutes from the house. Using the spare-key he had swiped earlier, he’d quietly ransack each room, leaving a window or door open as if Louise had made an honest mistake, and meeting them at a time and place as planned, he would take them both to Torquay with the loot stashed in the boot. After a lovely weekend of sand-castles and ice-cream, all three would return to the flat, and seeing the devastation he would share their look of shock as everything of value (including the bits he had already pawned) were gone, and not a single witness anywhere in this building had seen the culprit. In Alan’s eyes, his burglary would be a work of brilliance; a plan, a distraction, and an alibi-to-boot. Having got time off work, Maxine was all ready to go. But being a decent woman, who had promised Ms Riley she would house-sit her home. 63-year-old Louise Bertha Gann declined his offer… …and with that, she had unwittingly signed her own death warrant. The morning of Saturday 22nd June was succeeded by a surprisingly sticky night, as the heatwave had left Louise too tired to get out of bed, so Maxine made her a cup of tea - unaware it would be her last. Excited for the day ahead, a half days work followed by a weekend away, Maxine carried a cuppa into her beau who slept in a pink blanket among a sea of porcelain cats and a now empty mahogany box. Popping on his horn-rimmed glasses, he cooed “good morning Mickey, my sweet” as the two soon-to-be newly-weds pressed lips and blushed bright red. Only their happiness could come at a great price. At 8:30am, after a cooked-breakfast, dressed in her uniform, Maxine looked up the stairs to see Alan – wearing his blue suit and red tie, for a job which didn’t exist – standing on the landing, he softly whispered “see you at 1:20pm my love” - and the last thing she saw was her lover waving her goodbye. With Maxine gone and Louise fast asleep, his brilliant plan to burgle the flat would only need a little tweak. It was simple, as long as he was quiet, no-one would be any the wiser… (creaking floorboard) …but nothing ever goes to plan. Being giddy with glee and as excited as a kid about to lick an ice-lolly, 20-year-old Maxine Gann waited patiently at Oxford Circus for the man she would marry to whisk her away on a sun-kissed trip for two. But by 1:40pm, as Alan hadn’t arrived, she phoned the flat but got no reply. By 2pm, she arrived back at 19 Gloucester Road to find the main door open but the flat door locked. Using a neighbour’s phone she called Alan’s employer, but no-one had heard of him. Growing concerned, at 3pm, she requested the help of Frederick Summers at Bucknell’s, and he forced open the door on the second-floor landing. Maxine would recall “the place was in a terrible state”; drawers were open, cupboards were emptied and everything had been ransacked. Inside the third-floor bedroom, she found a suitcase on the table which was half-filled with stolen items; jewellery, silver jugs and a cash box, anything easily saleable. And beside the door – dressed in a blue coat and black shoes, as if she was going out – lay her mother. Collapsed and unconscious, a bloodied flat-iron lay nearby, this one kilo-cast-iron weight was matted with her bloodied hair, having been used by the burglar – who was missing - to bash in her skull. Having never regained consciousness, at 9:35pm the next day, Louise Gann died of her injuries. (End) The investigation was simple - with a history of theft, the pawned items signed for in his handwriting, his fingerprints on the stolen items as well as the flat-iron, and having vanished without trace - the police issued Alan’s description in the papers and on Sunday 30th June. he was easily apprehended. Being too arrogant to adopt a disguise, while lodging in the home of Mrs Ellen Church of 8 Beech Road in Weybridge and using the worst alias ever –that being Ian McIan – wearing the same suit and staring at a photo of himself, he engaged in a conversation about himself and the murder he was wanted for. Tried at the Old Bailey on the 10th September 1935, although he professed his innocence even against overwhelming evidence, eight day later, having deliberated for 25 minutes, the jury found him guilty. It was proven without a shadow of doubt that Alan Grierson was guilty of the murder of Louise Gann. Everyone had accepted it as a fact. Everyone… except Maxine, who was so blinded by her love for the man who had bludgeoned her own mother to death; that she wrote him love letters in prison, she set-up a petition to pardon him, and – having taken his hand in marriage – she had agreed to be his wife. They were due to marry on 30th October 1935, the day of her 21st birthday. But with his reprieve being denied, at 9am, he was hung by his neck at Pentonville Prison. Dressed in black, when his death was announced, she placed a bouquet of violets at the prison gates with a note: ‘To my Alan, from Maxine”. Alan Grierson was buried in Pentonville Prison. Two years later, being gripped with an uncontrollable grief, Maxine took her own life, having died by suicide. And it was all for the love… of a spoiled brat. 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.
Nominated BEST TRUE-CRIME PODCAST at The British Podcast Awards, 4th Best True Crime Podcast by The Week, 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.
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 NINETY-TWO:
Just shy of midnight on Wednesday 26th August 1942, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk sat 44-year-old Gladys Wilson and her lover Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz of the Polish Army. Both being married to others who the war had split apart, neither Glady nor Ronnie had planned to have affairs, as like so many others, they were just seeking a little affection during a turbulent time of loss and grief. After ten days of romance, being sat holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, for him their love was forever… in both life and death. Found after her death, Gladys had written nine truly tragic words in her diary. The first four of which were “I love him, but…”. The question was, but what?
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THE LOCATION
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SOURCES: This case was researched using some of the sources below. MEPO 3/2234 - https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/r/C1258017
MUSIC:
UNEDITED TRANSCRIPT OF THE EPISODE: Welcome to Murder Mile. Today I’m standing on Lover’s Walk in Hyde Park, W2; one street west of the last sighting alive of Ruby Bolton, a short walk south-west of the last night of fun by the bloody butler, one gate down from the suicide and murder of former lovers Julia Mangan & Robert Williams, and in another odd mirror of both tragic cases, the death pact of the couple who failed to see - coming soon to Murder Mile. As an ill-defined bridle way off the main walkway around the eastern edge of Hyde Park, it’s strange that a place so littered with death is still called Lover’s Walk. And yet, this is where they stroll. You’ll see all types of couples here; whether it’s the old ones sweetly holding hands, the young ones sucking face, the new ones bonking and banging their bits together like they’ll win a prize if they erase each other’s genitals, and then there’s the ones with sprogs; who look as ravaged as a Guantanamo Bay prisoner - having been waterboarded by urine, tortured by a tiny tot with lungs like a pig with piles, and imprisoned in a Peppa Pig covered hell - who will confess to (literally) anything in return for five minute nap, a half pint with a pal and a conversation which doesn’t involve stains, fluids or orifices. For love to last, it needs to be built on a strong foundation of trust, time and friendship. Sadly, too many loves are doomed to failure, as being too hasty to believe that they’ve met ‘the one’, and fearing that – if they don’t get hitched this second – their lover for life will leave them forever, so many relationships end in break-ups, separations and divorces, and occasionally they end in death. Just shy of midnight on Wednesday 26th August 1942, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk sat 44-year-old Gladys Wilson and her lover 28-year-old Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz. Both being married to others who the war had split apart, neither Gladys nor Ronnie had planned to have affairs, as like so many others, they were just seeking a little affection during a turbulent time of loss and grief. After ten days of romance, being sat on a bench holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, for him their love was to last forever. My name is Michael, I am your tour guide, and this is Murder Mile. Episode 192: “I love him, but…” To many, it may seem easy to condemn these two as nothing but common cheats, a morally loose pair of lascivious lushes who slipped their marital vows before God as easily as they slipped into a seedy bed of lust to fondle and fornicate. But this is not a story about a tawdry affair, this is a tale about two good people, lost amidst the horrors of war, who – like so many others – were simply seeking affection. Gladys Maud Pearson was born in and around Fulham in 1898. She would live to the age of forty-four, but blessed with an ageless face, old-fashioned morals and a youthful heart, the newspapers stated she was somewhere between thirty and fifty – which may have made her bristle, blush or chuckle. The first decades of the twentieth century were a time of hardship and grief, as the world was hit by an onslaught of tragedy; First World War, Spanish Flu, Influenza and the Great Depression had left billions broke, lost and bereft; with their lives only held together by the strength of their family’s love. The Pearson’s were one such family hit hard by grief, as with her mother Maud left a grieving widow with two young children to feed, Gladys and her younger brother Cyril were raised in the middle-class affluence of Kingston with Uncle William and Auntie Kate, as her mother struggled to cope alone. Tragedy aside, their childhood was loving. So, it’s no surprise that Gladys sought out any hint of affection, worried that any love she was given could easily be her last. Gladys was a woman who loved to be loved - and who doesn’t. And although remarkably youthful, she was as ordinary as most; with a slim build, short brown hair and pale skin; she had lips that longed to be kissed, a hand which ached to be held, and a set of chestnut eyes which cried out for a special someone to mend her broken heart. Keen to rebuild her life and to find love again, in 1916, her mother Maud married William Crawley, a respected wool merchant who was good, decent and kind. They lived in a little flat at 58 Margravine Gardens in Baron’s Court and they remained together until their deaths in their seventies and eighties. According to those who knew her, Gladys was a solid woman; she was reliable and caring, she was warm and big-hearted, a woman who needed to be loved and to love those who needed to be loved. As an average woman with an ordinary life, we know little of her circumstance before the day it ended. Married in her early twenties, Gladys Wilson (as she became) found happiness with a man she loved and together in a cosy home they had a son who they nicknamed Budge. Life was simple but good. As a romantic, throughout her life, Glady kept a diary in which she jotted down everything; from those most wonderous moments which made her the woman she was (her marriage, her son, their home), to her most intimate of thoughts; whether her fears and foibles, issues or aches, loves or losses. Being so private, she wasn’t one to gossip about her worries, but in her diary, she would spill her heart. On Tuesday 25th August 1942, the day before she died, in her diary she would commit to paper some of the most heart-breaking and tragic words this woman would ever write, unaware that it would be some of her last. It was a simple sentence composed of just nine words, the first four of which were… “I love him, but…” September 1939 saw the start of a war which ripped loved ones apart in a way which never been seen on that scale before. The Second World War was a global conflict which wouldn’t leave a single family untouched by grief, displaced by tyranny, bombed to oblivion, evacuated for safety or ordered to fight. For Gladys, as with so many wives and mothers, with her loving husband and her only child conscripted and shipped overseas, she had gone from being a woman of purpose, to being a lost lone lady rattling around an empty house with no-one to care for. As if she was already bereaved, this once bustling home of her beloved family now hung with the eerie ghosts of their presence; their photographs, their clothes, and even their smell. Only now, this woman who loved to be loved was all alone. With a phone call from overseas nigh-on-impossible – even just to hear their voices or be assured they were alive - she felt blessed if she received a letter-a-week, or (held up or lost by conflict) as a bunch every few months. But as the war dragged on from a skirmish it was said would be done by Christmas to a fight with no end in sight, Gladys did as most women did, and knuckled down to her life and work. In 1940, she moved in with her mother and step-father in their little lodging at 58 Margravine Gardens in Baron’s Court, and being conscripted into the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry (renamed the Women’s Transport Service) - as a skilled truck-driver and motorbike rider - Gladys served her country shuttling the injured on the front-lines of North France, Norway and (as a key defensive position) East Scotland. With her beloved boys far from home, the war had proven a distraction from the gaping hole in Gladys' heart. Being so busy, she had little time to mourn the two men in her life she never knew if she would ever see again soon. Work had given her purpose and focus. But what she needed most… …was a little affection. Thanks to the stories we’ve been told, we have a rose-tinted view of how the soldiers who fought and their sweethearts back home held each other’s pictures to their hearts and remained forever faithful. The war pushed ordinary people to the brink, not just of their safety and sanity, but also of their love. By 1942, three years into the war, Britain had taken a turn for the worst; as the Luftwaffe’s bombers ravaged our skies, Nazi hoards perched on the shores, and so thick and fast were our losses that even Dunkirk would be rewritten forever as a success of our British pluck, rather than a failure of our forces. The people were rightfully in fear, as – with no end in sight, the dead mounting and fresh meat being forced into the grinder - those whose anthem claimed “we shall never be slaves”, looked likely to lose. Before war had begun, even as it loomed, the people needed hope and love. In the first few months, the marriage rate in Britain skyrocketed by 250%; with many marrying those they barely knew, to fulfil a dream before they died, and with some even getting wed and having a baby to avoid conscription. Marriage requires a strong foundation to survive so many months or even years apart, but having hastily committed to a life of love with a stranger they were little more than smitten by; in 1939 the divorce rate was one-in-six, by 1946, the first year after the end of the war, it had risen to one-in-four. In terms of statistics, the interwar years were chaotic. Owing to the mass slaughter, 1941-42 was the only year this century where the death rates outweighed the birth-rate. And as the war escalated, so did the birth rate. But with so many parents widowed and too many marriages over - the greatest victim of this rush for to find love was the children – as by 1946, adoption had risen and peaked. It’s impossible to say how many children were put up for adoption, having been born out-of-wedlock or made by mistake as a brief dalliance between two lonely strangers who were looking for affection. But this is not to shame them, as what happened-happened. In the turbulent time of war as everyone drowned in a sea of misery and death, the only antidote was love. For some, it was sex. But for others, it was those special things they missed; a little kiss, a warm hug, a lingering smile or holding hands. Gladys & Ronnie were just two regular people, married to others but parted by the war, who found love in each other’s arms, and who knew – when all this was over – it would never be spoken of again. But what began as a bit of fun, a little kissing to soothe a broken heart, soon blossomed into a love that they could no longer control. So besotted was Ronnie, that she became his one-true-love. So smitten was Gladys, that in her diary, she would write four words about the man she had fallen for. “I love him, but…” Ronauld Kurasz was a 28-year-old Second Lieutenant in the Polish Army Corps. With his homeland smashed and its military shattered within the first month of the war by dual invasion by Germany and Russia, as millions were displaced, 80,000 men went into exile and reformed the 1st Polish Corps. Formed in September 1940, 14,500 soldiers comprising of two Rifle Brigades, an Armoured division and a parachute unit were there to protect a 200-kilometre stretch of Scottish shore between the Firth of Forth (north of Edinburgh) to Montrose (south of Aberdeen) as Norway had fallen to the Nazis. Having built sea-defences and gun batteries to repel an invasion, the 1st Polish Corp were billeted in the small town of Cupar in Fife, which – for the next few years – would become their temporary home. For Second Lieutenant Kurasz, known as Ronnie, as welcoming as the locals were to these visitors from a foreign land, their kindness could never fully erase the losses they felt; of the country they had lost, of the lives they had left behind, and of the friends and families they may never see or hear from again. Through the fate of being a soldier, Ronnie had survived. But being ordinary civilians, he had no idea if his wife or children had lived. With millions displaced and dead, he had no way to contact them and no knowledge if they knew where he was, in an unwinnable war which the Allies were losing. Three years had passed in a flash, but to those still grieving, it felt like a lifetime. Cupar was a nice place, it was safe and friendly. To make these lost souls feel at home; Polish delicacies were cooked, strong beer was never in short supply, and – as a reminder of the land they were fighting for –from the tower of the Corn Exchange, each day a bugler played the St Mary’s Call of Krakow, in tribute to a lone sentry who while sounding the invasion alarm in 1241… was killed mid-note. As welcoming as the town was, Ronnie struggled to survive in this strange land so far from home. His work had kept him busy and his friends had made him smile, but what he missed most… …was love. As an ambulance driver for the Women’s Transport Service, it was sheer coincidence that Gladys was billeted at Lodge No 19 at 72 Bonnygate in Cupar, barely half a mile from Ronnie’s barracks. With her diary lost to the midst of time, we will never know how Ronnie & Gladys met. Perhaps having been injured – as a mix of Florence Nightingale and Stirling Moss – maybe Gladys had rescued Ronnie and the two got chatting over some surgical swabs and the smell of iodine? As enlisted soldiers, maybe they shared a kiss being hunkered down in a bunker on manoeuvres? Or maybe, needing to kick off their boots after a hard day at work, these two lonely people caught each other’s eyes over a pint? It began as a friendship, two lovers with heavy hearts finding solace in each other’s company. Being an easy remedy to their grief and a distraction from their pain, all they wanted was to feel loved again. To neither Gladys nor Ronnie, it wouldn’t have seemed like they were engaged in an illicit affair, as all they were doing was chatting, smiling and laughing - the simple things which a being with a beating heart needs to survive. And maybe, having taken a long walk in the dunes, holding hands and sharing a long lingering silence as the waves broke, they kissed for the first time… and knew they were in love? It was wrong and they would have known it. But being so many miles and years apart from their loved ones, although absence makes the heart grow fonder, it’s hard to love a memory as it fades every day. It’s unlikely it was planned this way, but before they knew it, they were in love… …only this was a love which they knew would never last. (Whisper) “I love him, but…” June 1942. The outcome of the war hung on a knife-edge; as the Battle of Midway had proved a turning point in the Pacific, Tobruk was captured in a defeat that Churchill called a “disgrace”, and the first reports had filtered back that gas was being used in concentration camps to exterminate the Jews. Horror was everywhere, but for Ronnie & Gladys, their hearts were broken for reasons closer to home. Gladys was no longer an ambulance driver based in Cupar, she had been requisitioned back to London. London was her home, Cupar was his, and with both ordered to serve their country as and when their superiors decreed, the war had ripped them from their loved one once before, and now, it had again. Being 420 miles apart, with a limited train network and issued only a few days leave a year, they saw each other as often as they could, but with the long distance taking up a full day, it was never enough. To fill the void of loss and loneliness, they wrote as often as they could; but even a scented envelope, a wallet-sized snapshot and a few handwritten pages of words of longing and dreams of what may be, could never repair the new hole which had ripped in their hearts, as their memories grew distant. It’s uncertain why – whether an order or an opportunity – Gladys applied for a job in the Mechanised Transport Corps. In need of skilled drivers, the MTC drove dignitaries of foreign and British agencies, they shuttled SOE agents to airfields, and – as Gladys had done – they drove ambulances into war-zones. Only this time in Syria, Egypt and Palestine, where Gladys’ husband and son were based. Once again, for this brave and selfless woman, it was a chance to serve her country and rekindle her life with the loved ones she had lost so long ago. Having been successful in her interview, Gladys would initially be posted to the northern city of Leeds, with her attachment beginning at the end of August. On Friday 15st August 1942, issued a 72-hour leave pass to see his beloved in London, Ronnie booked a room at a boarding house at 13 Colosseum Terrace, to the side of Baker Street and Regent’s Park. Across this long weekend of love, they packed in as much as any couple could; they dined over candle-lit dinners, they took in a West End show and walked hand-in-hand seeing the sights, but unable to take their eyes off each other, as the two lovers shared a moment, they knew it was for one last time. With his 72-hour leave almost up, Sunday 17th August was to be their last day together, but unable to part, Ronnie did the unthinkable and – risking two years in prison – he went Absent Without Leave. Classed as a criminal and with his career in jeopardy, this secret couple who had signed in under the assumed name of Mr & Mrs Kurasz, laid low, kept quiet and spent as much time in each other’s arms, knowing that – like the sands inside an hour-glass –their brief relationship too was coming to an end. On Sunday 23rd, one week before she was due to start her new job, Ronnie met Gladys’ mother; they chatted over tea and cake, although it is uncertain if Gladys introduced him as a ‘friend’ or ‘boyfriend’. With their time almost up and their savings spent, on Tuesday 25th August, Gladys & Ronnie checked out of the boarding house by Regent’s Park. Later found upon their person, they had both written passages in their diaries that day. Although only part of it was found, Ronnie’s was tragic and paranoid. It read; “We are absolutely two broken people. She give up always everything for me, also her life”. Whereas Gladys’ last entry in her diary addressed to her mum was less of a suicide note, but was more of a last will and testament, which spoke of the fears she could never say in words. It read: “To my mother. Just in case anything happens to me today, Ronnie is still here. He should have returned yesterday, but says he cannot live without me in the awful place where his regiment is. I hope everything will be alright. But Ronnie is in a terrible state about going back. We have had a wonderful leave together. He threatens all the time to kill himself and me”. And following her tragic premonition, she wrote the most heart-breaking words this lonely woman would ever write. “I love him, but… I don’t want to die”. On Wednesday 26th August 1942, just before midnight, Ronnie & Gladys walked – as many couples do – along the tree-lined seclusion of Lover’s Walk in Hyde Park. With her bags packed, her lodging booked and new job awaiting her in Leeds, she had told her mother “I won’t be late”. But she was. After ten days of romance, being sat holding hands, they both knew their relationship was to end. But where-as she would see their love as fleeting, a little affection to repair her lonely heart. For him, their love was to last forever, as this would be their last goodbye. (Two shots, then one shot - END). Hearing the shots, at roughly 11:40pm, PCs Heath & Gillespie were on duty in Hyde Park when they heard three shots and ran in the direction. 100 yards west of Stanhope Gate, across a wooden bench on Lover’s Walk, they found a uniformed soldier and a woman in her civvies, collapsed and bleeding. With two bullet wounds to her left temple, one behind his right ear and an Army-issue Smith & Wesson .38 calibre revolver in his right hand with three of the six rounds spent – discovering their diaries upon their person - it was no mystery to the officers what had happened, as death permeated this path. With Gladys sprawled across his chest and with no defensive wounds, in a moment of surprise he had shot her in the head while she was distracted by something else. Clutching his dying lover to his body, this couple who were not to be would die in each other’s arms - whether she wanted to, or not. As the ambulance arrived, it had proved to be a miracle that Gladys had clung onto a sliver of life, but by the time she had arrived at nearby St George’s hospital, the doctor declared her life as extinct. An inquest was held at Westminster Coroner’s Court before Mr Bentley Purchase. Concluded without the jury retiring, it was determined that Second Lieutenant Ronauld Kurasz had “murdered Gladys Wilson and that he had committed suicide while of unsound mind”. Giving evidence, Glady’s brother Cyril would state that “she would have been the last person in the world to take her own life”. It’s tragic that - as a woman who loved to be loved - the war had driven Gladys to find affection in the arms of another man who truly loved her. But instead of finding warmth, she found only death. 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. |
AuthorMichael J Buchanan-Dunne is a crime writer, podcaster of Murder Mile UK True Crime and creator of true-crime TV series. Archives
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