Murder at the Inn Read online

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Without the help and support of a whole host of people, this book would not have been possible. So I’d like to raise a toast to the following: Jim Addison, Gurdish Bansal, Peter Biddle, Fran Bowden, Adele Clay, Philip Cutter, Deborah Dickeson, Sophie Enever, Alex Evans, Michael Evered, Leila Gibson, Susannah Harvey, Felicity Hebditch, Jan Hebditch, Kate Hebditch, Max Hebditch, Rick Hebditch, George Hoare, Gary Hodgson, Catrina Hudson, Judi James, Kevin Kemp, Rod Leitch, Lana Matile Moore, Alex Moore, Charlie Moore, Geoff Moore, Laurie Moore, Philippa Moore, Sam Moore, Saskia Moore, Tamsin Moore, Dr Tom Moore, Tommy Moore, Paul Nero, Dr Claire Nesbitt, Fiona Poole, Will Poole, Sarah Sarkhel, Daniel Simister, Robert Smith, Peter Spurgeon, Jason Stredder, Samm Taylor and Julia Wherrell.

  CONTENTS

  Title

  Acknowledgements

  Introduction

  Part One: A Drinker’s Guide to Crime

  1 Homicide and the Hostelry

  2 Murderous Landlords

  3 Hold-ups, Hideouts and Heists

  4 Plots, Riots and Rebellions

  5 Bodies in the Bar, Post-mortems and Inquests

  6 Courtrooms and Prisons

  7 Inns and Executions

  8 Landlords and Hangmen

  9 Signs of the Crimes

  10 Policing the Pub

  11 Catch Them While You Can

  Part Two: The Cases

  1 Golden Age of the Scoundrel: 1600–1700s

  2 From Georgian Dramas to Victorian Scandals: 1800s

  3 Murder Most Modern: 1900s

  Select Bibliography

  Copyright

  INTRODUCTION

  In the early 1930s, archaeologists working at Housesteads Roman fort on Hadrian’s Wall in Northumberland made a shocking discovery. Underneath the floor of a building in the civilian settlement, just outside the main fort, which was believed to be the remains of a Roman tavern, they found two skeletons. One was a man and the other was a woman. The male skeleton had the blade of a knife still stuck in its ribs. The bodies had been buried in the back room under a clean layer of clay. Not only did they appear to have been hurriedly hidden, but it was usual Roman practice to bury the dead outside the walls of a town or military post. The archaeologists came to a gruesome conclusion – that they had uncovered a double murder thought to have been committed before the year AD 367.

  The origins of modern-day pubs and inns in Britain can be traced back to Roman ‘tabernae’ that sold wine and food to travellers and advertised their wares by displaying vine leaves outside. These were often rowdy places where arguments could suddenly erupt, leading to brawls and, sometimes, death. And, for the next 2,000 years, the development of drinking institutions across the nation would go hand in hand with the history of both crime and punishment. Our pubs and hotels have long been places of solace offering good company, welcome liquid refreshment, a hearty meal and perhaps a bed for the night. Yet they have always had the potential to be crucibles of crime too.

  With a need for drinks that were safer than water and places where the community could meet and relax, the alehouse thrived in Saxon times and into the medieval era. Inns, which grew out of the tradition of monastic hospices, were, from around the twelfth century, places where you could not only get a drink but a bed for the night. And by this time there were a few taverns too, selling wine to a well-to-do crowd. By the nineteenth century all these hostelries had become part of the fabric of the nation and begun to morph into the pubs and hotels we recognise today. The word ‘pub’, or ‘public house’, was first coined in the late seventeenth century, but did not become common until 1800, while inns only began being called hotels from the eighteenth century. The modern-day equivalent of the tavern is the wine bar. The distinctions between all these establishments have, however, become blurred over the years.

  Sir William Harcourt, a nineteenth-century Home Secretary, once said that ‘As much of the history of England has been brought about in public houses as in the House of Commons.’ It is also true that many of the most dramatic episodes in both English and British criminal history feature pubs and hotels. Over the centuries they have acted as dens of thieves, pirates, smugglers, highwaymen and those plotting terror. They have also been the scenes of mass brawls, riots and grisly murders. Serial killers, too, have often made them their haunts as they search for more victims. Yet pubs and hotels have also served the community when it comes to solving and punishing crime. For they have been used as venues for post-mortems, inquests, court sessions and even as places of execution.

  In Murder At The Inn the fascinating connection between crime and the hostelry is brought to life in detail for the first time. Part one, a drinker’s guide to crime, explores the different kinds of felony that have been linked to pubs and hotels and the different functions they have performed in the legal process throughout history. Part two looks at fifty criminal cases from the last 400 years where pubs and hotels were at the heart of the story. These include half-forgotten but gripping tales of wrongdoing as well as celebrated cases involving the likes of Dick Turpin, Jack the Ripper and Lord Lucan. In all of the examples at least one pub or hotel was involved. Some, like The Blind Beggar in London’s East End, where one of the Kray brothers shot a gang rival in 1966, have achieved international notoriety. Most of the pubs and hotels mentioned in this book can still be visited to this day and, where they are still open, directions on how to find them are included. All provide a vital link with an important aspect of our shared history and are still places in which to enjoy a drink, along with a good yarn, serving just the same purpose as their forerunners did in ancient times.

  James Moore, 2015

  DISCLAIMER …

  Writing about the history of pubs and hotels is a slippery business. The names of venues change, sometimes frequently, while others suddenly close. Some reopen, only to move to new locations. And, like many of the good bar room tales told within their walls, the exact truth about a pub’s past is often tricky to pin down. I have endeavoured to stick to the facts, where they are known, and to correctly link old hostelries and inns to the crimes in question, but apologies for any inaccuracies that may have crept in. These will, of course, be corrected in future editions.

  PART ONE:

  A DRINKER’S GUIDE TO CRIME

  1

  HOMICIDE AND

  THE HOSTELRY

  For many years The Crown and Dolphin pub in Shadwell, East London, displayed a macabre item of memorabilia behind the bar – a genuine human skull. It was purported to be that of John Williams, the man supposedly responsible for the Ratcliff Highway murders which had rocked the capital in 1811. The story goes that in the 1880s his skeleton had been dug up near the now closed Crown and Dolphin during building works. They knew it was Williams’ body not only from the location in which he was known to have been buried, but also because the skeleton had a wooden stake through it – just like Williams when he’d been buried.

  The Ratcliff Murders saw seven people killed in two separate incidents over twelve days within a square mile of each other, and were later described as ‘the sublimest and most entire in their excellence that ever were committed’. The first murder occurred on the night of 7 December 1811 when a 24-year-old draper, Timothy Marr, along with his wife, Celia, 22, their 3-month-old son and a shop assistant were all found dead at their shop in Wapping. The adults’ skulls had been crushed in and the baby’s throat cut. Then, on 19 December, 56-year-old John Williamson, landlord of the nearby King’s Arms, along with his wife and a servant, were murdered in their own pub. A serial killer appeared to be on the loose and initially the Bow Street Runners, a precursor of the Metropolitan police force, had little to go on. However, John Williams, who lodged at another defunct Wapping
pub, The Pear Tree, became a suspect when he was linked to a ship carpenter’s hammer thought to be the murder weapon in the first killings. The evidence was shaky, but Williams was arrested. He was never brought to trial, committing suicide in jail. The public were outraged that Williams had cheated the hangman, and to assuage them the Home Secretary ordered that his body be paraded through the streets. An estimated 180,000 people attended the procession before Williams’ dead body had a stake hammered through the heart according to ancient custom, and was unceremoniously buried in a hole at a crossroads.

  The case became a media sensation and was instrumental in the growing fascination with murders among the nineteenth-century public which saw many high profile killings such as the Red Barn Murder of 1827 (see here) dramatised in plays. Our obsession with murder has continued to this day, fuelling countless TV dramas, films and books. But one aspect that has been largely ignored is how pubs and inns have often provided backdrops or even the stage for murder, just as they did in the Ratcliff Highway killings. Indeed it is startling just how many of the famous murder cases in history involve a pub or hotel in some capacity. Sometimes they feature as murder scenes, sometimes as places where despicable crimes are planned or simply as locations where the villains have been arrested. In other cases they provide vital evidence to police and prosecutors as places where victims or suspects were last seen.

  Sharing a drink can bring people together and induce a convivial, friendly atmosphere. Yet too much drink can get the better of any of us, and the records of the earliest alehouses show that beer and blood have always been bedfellows. Just as now, fights and brawls could break out over anything from religion and politics to sex or money. In 1641, for example, the constable of East Grinstead found people fighting in an alehouse. He reported ‘a great deal of bloodshed’ and the ale-wife ‘covered with gore’. At worst, of course, this behaviour could lead to murder. For many years it was said that the famous playwright Christopher Marlowe had been killed in a simple tavern brawl, though this is now in dispute among historians. Whether or not the esteemed author of works like Doctor Faustus was indeed stabbed in a row over a bar bill as it is alleged, there are plenty of other examples from history where violence flared up in drinking venues and led to death. On 10 February 1355, two university students drinking in the Swyndlestock Tavern in Oxford complained about the quality of the wine. In the argument that ensued they ended up throwing the jug at the head of the taverner, John Croidon. What had begun as a low-level row soon erupted into a full-scale riot in the streets of the city, with hundreds of scholars taking on groups of locals. The trouble lasted several days and only ended after the deaths of ninety of those involved. During the English Civil War, inns and alehouses were often melting pots for heated debate, and in 1648 at The Bull in Long Melford it may well have been a disagreement over politics which led Roger Greene to stab Richard Evered. The murder took place in the entrance hall of the half-timbered inn, which dates back to 1580. Greene was swiftly tried and executed.

  The Bull Hotel in Long Melford, Suffolk, which was the scene of a shocking murder in 1648. (Courtesy of the Bull Hotel)

  Disputes over more trivial matters can always get out of hand too – but never more spectacularly than when Lord Byron, an uncle to the famous poet, killed his cousin William Chaworth in a disagreement over who had more game on their respective estates. On 26 January 1765 the pair fell out over the issue whilst drinking at the Star and Garter tavern in London’s Pall Mall, and a duel in one of the rooms of the building resulted in Chaworth being run through with a sword. Although Byron was brought to trial he got special treatment, being a peer of the realm. He got off with a conviction for manslaughter and a small fine.

  Although often outlawed, or the subject of regulation, gambling in alehouses and pubs has been popular for more than 1,000 years. It has also led to murderous disputes. The Maid’s Head in Norwich, Norfolk, has a proud history going back 800 years, but in 1519 it was the setting for a shameful episode when John Ganton was slain with a dagger in a disagreement over who was winning in a game of dice. In the following century a game of shove ha’penny, still a bar room favourite today, resulted in a man being stabbed to death in a Hertfordshire alehouse, while the ghost that is reputed to haunt The Grenadier, in London’s Belgravia, is said to be of a former soldier murdered there after cheating in a game of cards.

  Money is often a motive for murder and plain old robbery has accounted for plenty of killings linked to hostelries. In 1734, for instance, a pedlar called Jacob Harris slashed the neck of the landlord at the now demolished Royal Oak in Ditchling Common, West Sussex, killed his wife and maid too and then made off with the night’s takings. Before he died, however, the taverner named his victim and Harris was tracked down to the Cat Inn, West Hoathly, where he was found hiding in a chimney. Another murder and robbery, that of William Stevenson, in 1859, by two men with whom he had been drinking in The Ship at Sibsey, Lincolnshire, even gave rise to a ditty:

  At the public-house he called for ale,

  His lowly spirits for to cheer,

  He little thought that night to die,

  And being to his home so near;

  But he was followed from that house,

  By some ruffians you shall hear,

  Who robbed and murdered the poor old man,

  In Sibsey village in Lincolnshire.

  An equally invidious crime took place in June 1922 when an 18-year-old pantry boy at the Spencer Hotel in London, today known as the DoubleTree, went to the gallows after killing a guest there, Lady Alice White. Henry Jacoby had battered the 65-year-old to death with a hammer in Room 14 of the hotel. She had made the mistake of waking up during his attempt to rob her. Seven years later, Sidney Harry Fox was also hanged after he strangled his mother in the Metropole Hotel in Margate, Kent, to cash in on an insurance policy. His attempt to disguise the murder by lighting a fire in her room had failed.

  Plans to bump people off have often been hatched over a drink in a pub. In 1551 Thomas Arden, the mayor of Faversham in Kent, was strangled, beaten and stabbed to death in his own home. His wife Alice and her lover, Richard Mosbye, planned the murder at an inn called the Fleur-de-Lis, now a museum. Alice was burned at the stake and others who took part were also executed. In another case, from 1741, a captain in the Royal Navy, Samuel Goodere, ordered some of his men to assemble in the White Hart in Bristol before kidnapping his own brother, Sir John Goodere, who was then murdered aboard the HMS Ruby.

  Pubs can be the venue for criminal ‘hits’ too, most famously in the case of the Krays (see here). That case took several years to solve. But the police have had even more difficulty in bringing anyone to justice for the murder of Russian spy Alexander Litvinenko. After taking tea at the Millennium Hotel in London on 1 November 2006, in the company of two other Russians, the 44-year-old former secret service agent fell ill. He died a few days later. His death was attributed to poisoning with the radioactive substance polonium-210, traces of which were found at the hotel. While British police identified a Russian man as the main suspect, no one has, to date, faced charges.

  It’s always worth being wary about whom you’re talking to in a pub or hotel bar. In the last 200 years they have been the haunts of a number of serial killers, many of whom appeared to be charming characters on the surface, as they lured victims to their doom. Among these were Neville Heath, John George Haigh and Dennis Nilsen.

  Numerous pubs crop up in the evidence surrounding the most famous serial killer of all, Jack the Ripper, whose murders shocked London in 1888. Many Whitechapel watering holes were later declared as places where possible suspects and victims were seen drinking in the run up to the crimes. And, while the Ripper murders have remained frustratingly unsolved, sightings of murder victims in pubs just before their disappearance have been crucial in many a murder trial. In April 1937, Ruby Keen, 23, was killed in a lane near Leighton Buzzard, Bedfordshire, by a former boyfriend, Leslie George Stone. The pair had been seen drinking i
n several pubs in the town including the Golden Bell, the Cross Keys and the Stag in the hours before the murder, and witnesses were able to testify that Stone, well-oiled with beer, had been trying to persuade the port-drinking Ruby to break off her engagement with a local policeman on the night she died. Stone, 24, was eventually hanged at Pentonville Prison on 13 August 1937.

  In an earlier case, heard at the Old Bailey, George Foster denied killing his wife and child by drowning them in the Paddington Canal. He swore that, though he had been in the Mitre tavern with them on the day in question, he had left alone. A waiter at the pub testified that he had seen them leaving together. Foster was hanged on the 18 January 1803.

  Sometimes, however, such evidence would lead to the wrong verdict. In March 1949 the Cameo Cinema Murders rocked the city of Liverpool when the manager and assistant at the picture house were robbed and shot dead. Chillingly, the plot of the film that had been showing that night involved a double murder. The police made little headway with their investigations until 23-year-old local prostitute Jackie Dickson and her boyfriend, pimp James Northam, came forward. The couple said that they had seen labourers George Kelly, 27, and Charles Connolly, 26, both of whom had minor convictions to their name, planning the crime in a pub called The Beehive in Mount Pleasant that night. According to them, Kelly had been showing off his gun in the bar. Kelly and Connolly claimed not even to know each other and to have alibis. They both maintained that they had not been in The Beehive on the evening in question. Despite more shaky evidence from a convict who had claimed to have overheard the two accused men plotting whilst behind bars, Kelly and Connolly were put on trial. While Kelly was convicted and hanged in March 1950, Connolly got ten years behind bars. Both convictions were eventually quashed in 2003.