Casefile True Crime - Case 218: The Blackout Killers (Part 1)

Episode Date: July 9, 2022

[Part 1 of 2] At the height of World War Two in London, a serial killer roamed the streets. In just one week in February 1942, he killed four women and attempted to kill others, taking them by surprise at night during the enforced blackout periods. --- Narration – Anonymous Host Research & writing – Jess Forsayeth Creative direction – Milly Raso Production and music – Mike Migas This episode's sponsors: ShipStation – Try ShipStation FREE for 60 days with promo code ‘CASEFILE’ Beauty Counter – Get 30% off your first order with promo code ‘FOSTER’ BetterHelp – Get 10% off your first month of professional counselling with a licensed therapist For all credits and sources please visit casefilepodcast.com/case-218-the-blackout-killers-part-1

Our episodes deal with serious and often distressing incidents. If you feel at any time you need support, please contact your local crisis centre. For suggested phone numbers for confidential support, please see the show notes for this episode on your app or on our website. I'm speaking from London. It is late afternoon and the people of London are preparing for the night. Everyone is anxious to get home before darkness falls, before our nightly visitors arrive. The dusk is deepening. Listening crews are posted all the way from the coast to London to pick up the drone of the German planes. Soon the nightly battle of London will be on.

This has been a quiet day for us, but it won't be a quiet night. The searchlights are in position, the guns are ready, the people's army of volunteers is ready. They are the ones who are really fighting this war, the firemen, the air raid wardens, the ambulance drivers, and there's the wail of the banshee. The nightly siege of London has begun. The city is dressed for battle. The sun set over wartime London, blanketing the entire city in darkness. The streetlights on the mostly bare roads were dimmed or turned off. Slotted covers were fitted on the traffic lights and emergency vehicles to direct

their bright glow to the ground. Pedestrians navigated the shadowy streets with great difficulty. They were permitted to carry a small six-inch flashlight, but it had to be casted downwards and could only be turned on sparingly. This was the life of a Londoner since September 1939. The war had become the backdrop of everyday life. Walls were plastered with propaganda posters warning of Nazi espionage. Sandbags were piled high around lamp posts and in doorways. Barbed wire encircled government buildings which were protected by anti-aircraft weaponry. Pontoon bridges spanned the River Thames, its embankment peppered with concrete guard posts.

Brick bomb shelters had been constructed throughout the city for civilians to swiftly hide in should the enemy bridge the perimeter. Most people chose to spend evenings at home, hidden behind windows covered with cardboard, thick curtains or black painted glass. Strict penalties were doled out to anyone who led even the slightest sliver of light escape. To hinder enemy aircraft from bombing attacks, the city had enforced the nightly blackouts, the least popular of all anti-bombardment implementations. It left the city's nightlife in quiet stasis, disrupting many lives and lowering morale. Looting theft, burglaries, robberies and gang-related crime increased under the cover of darkness,

as did rape and murder. On the night of Sunday, February 8, 1942, 41-year-old Evelyn Hamilton arrived at a boarding house in London's West End. She would only be staying for one night as she made her way further north to the port town of Grimsby. After unpacking and settling into her room, Evelyn asked the boarding house owner where she could get a late meal. She was directed to a restaurant approximately half a mile away on Oxford Street. It was nearing midnight when Evelyn rugged up and made her way through the cold, dark streets to the restaurant. One of the few places that maintained some element of the boisterous pre-war festivities

was Lion's Corner House. The large ornate eatery was a popular haunt for military men and volunteers tasked with safeguarding London at night. While it appeared dark and quiet from the outside, inside, the restaurant was a buzz with live music and patrons drinking to forget about the everyday stress of war. Evelyn was led to a table and ordered a celebratory glass of wine. Not only was it her birthday, she was about to start a new job as a pharmacy manager and was looking forward to new beginnings. By the time Evelyn finished her meal, it was early Monday morning. The sun had yet to rise. The transition from the bright restaurant interior to the unlit, foggy streets was disorientating enough, but Evelyn had to walk extra cautiously in her

high heels. She made her way along Montague Place, passing a cluster of unoccupied, above-ground bomb shelters. As she walked by the central shelter, she was suddenly grabbed from behind and attract inside. Two men were walking along Montague Place when a weak beam of light caught their attention. It was emanating from a small torch that lay in the doorway of a nearby bomb shelter. The men went to investigate. Just inside the door lay the lifeless body of Evelyn Hamilton, her torn blouse exposing one of her breasts. Her skirt had also been lifted up with her underwear pulled below her knees. The men rushed out to alert a police officer and the cramped

shoulder was soon teeming with detectives. Scuff marks on Evelyn's shoes and broken pieces of mortar indicated she had fought to free herself during the skirmish. But she had no defensive wounds, meaning her killer struck fast and unexpectedly before she could gather her bearings and fight back. Bruising and fingernail abrasions along her neck showed that she had been manually strangled, which prevented her from screaming for help and resulted in her death. The absence of foreign fingerprints meant her killer had worn gloves. Evelyn's wristwatch was frozen in the one o'clock position, likely broken during the assault. This allowed detectives to narrow down the exact time she was set upon.

A light layer of snow had fallen across the city that morning, but there was no chance of retrieving the perpetrator's footprints from outside the shelter. The movements of onlookers, detectives and other crime scene examiners had turned the snow into slush. The blackout had worked in the killer's favor by providing them with a cover of darkness and isolation. Because of this, no locals had seen or heard anything suspicious. Yet, the scene showed the killer was rushed and likely didn't finish what he had intended. While there was no physical evidence that Evelyn had been sexually assaulted, the state of her clothing indicated her assailant had intended to do so, but fled mid attack. Perhaps he feared he would be caught in the act.

Evelyn's handbag was found discarded on the pavement not far from the crime scene. It still contained Evelyn's identity card and a ration book, but her wallet was empty of cash. Evelyn's sister told detectives that Evelyn was known to carry large amounts of money as she didn't trust banks. She believed Evelyn had 80 pounds stolen from her bag, the equivalent of 4,000 pounds today. It seemed highly unlikely that Evelyn knew her killer, given she was only briefly passing through London. She had never been in a relationship and there wasn't anyone within her social circle that could be immediately highlighted as a suspect. Men who Evelyn had encountered during her short stay in London were questioned, including the owner of the

West End boarding house and other patrons at the restaurant she visited. One by one, they were ruled out, leaving homicide detectives with no feasible leads. Later that Monday night, 35-year-old Evelyn Oatley sipped a scotch in the King's Arm pub, just under two miles from where Evelyn Hamilton had been killed less than 24 hours prior. Evelyn Oatley had called London home for the past six years, making the big move from a poultry farm in Blackpool in the hopes of becoming a stage actress. The West End was renowned for its theatres, meaning it was the perfect place for Evelyn to settle down and begin her new career. The outbreak of the war changed everything. With Evelyn's theatre dream halted, she did

whatever she could to get by. It was a hard and lonely time, as the neon theatre lights that drew her to the West End were permanently shut off. When the King's Arms pub closed, Evelyn stepped outside into the crisper darkness and made her way to her bedside apartment on Wardour Street. She shared the building with two other tenants, an elderly man who lived on the floor above, and a woman named Ivy Poole who lived across the hall. Evelyn arrived home just before midnight. As she opened the front door and stepped into the hallway, she was suddenly bathed in light. Ivy stood on the landing above, having quickly flicked on a light to help Evelyn find her way up the stairwell. Evelyn expressed her thanks and made her way up. She wasn't alone.

She was joined by a man in his mid-twenties and the pair disappeared into her apartment together. Ivy was aware that Evelyn occasionally engaged in sex work to make ends meet, but this was the first time she had seen her with a client so young. Ivy returned to her own apartment and could hear Evelyn's wireless radio playing as she chatted quietly with her male companion. At around 12.30, just as Ivy was beginning to doze off, she was jolted awake by blaring jazz music. The wireless in Evelyn's apartment had been turned up as loudly as it would go. This was unlike Evelyn's. She could hear Evelyn's being turned up as loudly as it would go. This was unlike Evelyn, who was considerate of her

neighbors and never played music at such a volume. Ivy considered knocking on Evelyn's door to ask her to turn it down, but she didn't want to interrupt. Instead, she rolled over and tried her hardest to get to sleep. The music continued on for some time before it suddenly stopped and everything fell silent. The next morning of Tuesday, February 10, Ivy was reading the paper when there was a knock at her door. She was greeted by two workmen who were collecting money from the personal electricity meters installed in each apartment. At the time, light and heat were supplied to homes for an hourly fee via coin-operated machines. The two men asked if there was anyone else living in the building. Ivy told them about Evelyn Oatley, whom she assumed was sleeping in

after her late night. Ivy accompanied the workmen across the hall and knocked on Evelyn's door to her surprise that swung open on its hinges. Evelyn's apartment was cold, dark and quiet, with the electricity meter having run out. The blackout curtains positioned over the windows made it difficult to see anything inside, so one of the workmen shone a torch into the room. It illuminated Evelyn's body lying diagonally across her bed. Her head extended over the side, exposing a deep gash across her neck that pulled blood on the floor below. Ivy, still clad in her pajamas, rushed down the stairwell with the workmen in tow. They burst out onto the street where they spotted a policeman and called for his attention.

We just found the dead woman, one of the workmen, cried out breathlessly. It was estimated that Evelyn Oatley was killed three to four hours prior. A blood-stained razor blade and a pair of hair curling tongs also caked in blood were resting on the blanket beside Evelyn's head. Positioned between her legs was a metal can opener with a sharp tip that was used to pierce tin cans. In this case, it had been used to carry out a violent sexual assault and mutilation. A small flashlight had also been inserted inside Evelyn where it still remained. Although Evelyn's throat had been cut, bruising and abrasions around the gaping wound and the hemorrhaging of her eyes revealed that she had first been

manually strangled. Once unconscious, Evelyn's throat was fatally slit with the razor blade. The majority of the sexual violence occurred when she was on the brink of death with the flashlight having been inserted into her body post-mortem. Evelyn's handbag and wallet were still in her apartment, but their contents were scattered and both were empty of cash. Only Ivy Poole could provide a description of the young man who had come home with her murdered neighbour. He hadn't said a word as he followed Evelyn into her apartment, but Ivy recalled his short wavy hair that was combed to one side. His pointed jaw was clean shaven,

except for a mustache that framed the top of his thin lips. Standing about 5 feet 8 inches tall, he had been wearing a light blue overcoat buttoned up to the collar. Two women had now been violently murdered in Central London within a 24-hour period. Evelyn Hamilton's case was rare, involving an opportunistic killer snatching a random woman off London's darkened streets. In contrast, the murder of a sex worker wasn't nearly as uncommon. Evelyn Oatley's murder was also far more bloody and violent, carried out by a sadistic killer driven by sexual degradation. While the differences between the two slayings implied two distinct perpetrators,

police weren't so sure. After his seemingly unfinished public attack on Evelyn Hamilton, the killer might have learnt from his mistakes and struck behind closed doors, where there'd be less risk or distraction. Then there was the bruising on each of the victim's necks. It showed that they had both been strangled by a left-handed individual. Following the murder of Evelyn Oatley, London's sex workers were on heightened alert. The West End area in which the killer struck was referred to in the papers as the Mile of Terror. While some women were extra cautious about who they accepted as clientele, others couldn't afford to be picky. Some refused to be inhibited by fear.

Although frowned upon by society, the act of paying for sex wasn't illegal, and sex workers were busier than ever. Wartime bred a sense of recklessness, as no one knew what the future held, driving people to indulge. Female police officers posed undercover as sex workers within the Mile of Terror, hoping to flush the killer out, but he didn't take the bait. Two nights after the Hamilton and Oatley murders, 28-year-old sex worker Patricia Borg walked the drizzly streets of London's Paddington District on the lookout for potential clients. It was nearing 10pm and business was quiet.

Wanting a break from the cold, Patricia stopped by an empty store front and lit a cigarette. Just as she was considering calling at night, a man approached and asked Patricia, will you take me home? I have two pounds. Given the city-wide blackout, Patricia struggled to see the man through the dark, but he spoke with a refined English accent that indicated he was highly educated. Two pounds was a substantial amount for the time, but despite being desperate for the money, Patricia declined. Something about the man's mannerisms gave her the creeps and the brazen way he propositioned Patricia made her wary. The man took a deep inhale of a cigarette and

backed away. He asked if Patricia knew of any woman who would have him for two pounds. She said no. The man then walked down the road and disappeared into the shadows. Everyone should carry his gas mask just as the civil defence services do. They're under strict orders and always carry them. How many of you carry your gas masks? Yet civilians are just as much in danger of a gas attack as the services and they should take the same precautions. You should have your gas mask with you always. If you're out in the street when the warning rattle goes, put on your gas mask and get undercover. Wherever you go, have your gas mask with you always.

Later in the evening after Patricia Borg turned down her prospective client, 25-year-old Catherine Mulcahy was standing on the corner of Regent Street in the West End. A young man approached, his face barely visible in the faint glow of the cigarette he inhaled. With each smoky breath he stepped closer. Hying Catherine from head to toe, he asked, will you go with me? Catherine was apprehensive. Although the man smiled broadly and appeared friendly, his eyes were emotionless, like empty pits. Nevertheless, she accepted his offer and the pair climbed into a taxi bound for Catherine's

apartment near Hyde Park. By the time they arrived, Catherine was having second thoughts, but she had already taken the man's money and feared his reaction should she deny her services now. Neither Catherine nor the man had changed for the electricity meter, so Catherine burned a piece of paper and a saucepan to provide them with a few minutes of light. They removed their clothes and climbed into bed. For a brief moment, everything seemed to be going as planned. Then the man dug his knees hard into Catherine's stomach, winding her. He moved so quickly that Catherine had a little time to react.

Before she knew it, the man had wrapped his hands around her throat. There was no doubt in Catherine's mind that she was about to be killed. She fought back as best she could, thrashing, clawing and grabbing at her attacker. It was no use, he wouldn't let up. Realizing she was still wearing her boots, Catherine sourced what little energy she had left and kicked the man hard in the stomach. He rolled off the bed, cradling his gut, giving Catherine the opportunity to run out the front door. Kitty McQuillan lived across the hall from Catherine Mulcahy.

It was 11pm when she heard the commotion outside her door and was startled by Catherine's voice screaming, murder, police. Kitty opened her front door just as Catherine rushed inside, naked except for a pair of boots. Kitty caught sight of the silhouette of a naked man through the doorway into Catherine's dark apartment before slamming her own door shut and arming herself with a heavy vase. The man called out in an unusually calm voice. Give me a light. Miss, give me a match.

Kitty opened the door and threw the man a box of matches. He collected them off the floor, then struck one to observe his surroundings. Kitty could make out his pointed chin, but very little else. Have you seen my boots? he then asked. Kitty and Catherine watched nervously as the man stumbled about in the dark, collecting his clothes. When his match burnt out, he lit another. Once he had managed to dress himself, he moved towards Kitty's apartment door. She raised her vase defensively while Catherine gripped her tightly from behind.

Catherine was well aware of who she had crossed paths with. The man she had brought home had been the topic of conversation amongst those who occupied London streets at night. His horrific acts had reignited memories of an infamous unidentified killer that prowled the city 50 years prior. Jack the Ripper slashed and mutilated sex workers in rage-fueled attacks in London's East End between 1888 and 1891. While some theorised that he might still be alive and was continuing his spree, others were convinced the current killer was merely a copycat. They referred to him as the blackout Ripper.

You're a murderer, Catherine Mulcahy yelled, as the blackout Ripper approached. Without saying a word, he reached into his pockets and pulled out a wad of cash. He counted out eight pounds in one pound notes and threw them towards Catherine, saying, I'm sorry, I think I had too much to drink. He then walked down the hallway, clambered down the stairs, and headed out into the dark street. It was then that the blackout Ripper crossed paths with Doris Duannet. Several years earlier, Henry Duannet had been aimlessly shopping on Oxford Street when he spotted a woman named Doris waiting at a bus stop. He had noticed her in the West End

before but never felt it was appropriate to introduce himself. This was his chance. What followed was a whirlwind romance that led to their marriage two months later. At the outset of the war, like many others, Henry and Doris found themselves in a financially precarious situation. Henry took a job as a staff manager of a hotel on Regent Street. At 7pm on Friday, February 13, he arrived home after spending nearly 24 hours at the hotel. To his surprise, the milk was still sitting on the doorstep from that morning's delivery. Henry opened the front door and called out to Doris. There was no response. It was pitch black and he struggled to find the light switch. Once he did,

his eyes were drawn to the remains of last night's meal still sitting on the kitchen table. Henry knew immediately that something was wrong. Doris was extremely tidy and she wouldn't leave food out overnight. Henry walked down the hallway towards their bedroom. He could see that a light was on inside but the door was shut and there was no response when he called out. When Henry tried to open the door, he realized that it had been locked from the inside. Henry rummaged through the apartment looking for something he could use to Jimmy open the door. Unable to find anything and with a growing sense of worry, Henry summoned the police. An officer soon arrived and circled the exterior of the building looking for a window.

The one leading into Henry and Doris's bedroom was covered by shutters and also locked from the inside. With no other option, the officer went inside and gave the couple's bedroom door a big hard kick. The door dislodged from its hinges, granting the officer access to the room. His attention was immediately drawn to the bed. Although it appeared to be made, something was clearly underneath the blankets. The officer pulled the cover's back, exposing Doris's and its body. She was naked, aside from a black nightgown that was left open. A silk stocking was wrapped tightly around the 32-year-old's neck.

Flash had been carved out from under her left breast, multiple deep incisions had been made across her body and her genitals had been viciously mutilated. The officer exited the bedroom and told Henry, I must advise you not to go in that room. Detectives who were still in the midst of investigating the murders of Evelyn Hamilton and Evelyn Oatley were summoned to the Juana residence. The blackout ripper had struck again. Henry was aware that Doris had been a sex worker before the two met and he conceded that she must have returned to the profession while he worked nights at the hotel. Still, her murder was a complete mystery to the devastated Henry, who later told reporters,

we lived for each other. I wish myself dead because we were so fond of each other. As detectives were documenting the crime scene, a police dispatcher pulled up on a motorbike outside. He walked into Doris's room with a letter in hand. Inside was a brief message to detectives. Another body had been found. Earlier that day, 15-year-old Barbara Lowe took the train into London. Barbara attended a boarding school in the resort town of South Andon Sea, but she ventured into London on the third Friday of every month to spend the weekend with her mother Margaret. The pair valued their catch-ups, which were often spent shopping,

walking through the city's famed gardens or seeing a film at the cinema. On the afternoon of February 13, 1942, Barbara arrived at her mother's apartment on Gosfield Street in West London. Bags in hand, Barbara excitedly knocked on the front door. There was no response. After trying a few more times, Barbara walked down the road to visit her mother's friend. The friend hadn't seen Margaret for a few days and didn't know where she could be. Barbara spent the next hour wandering the streets, thinking her mother must have gone out and that she might run into her. Failing that, she returned to Gosfield

Street and stood at her mother's door once again, banging loudly. Suddenly, a neighbour's door swung open and he asked Barbara to step inside. Two police officers were waiting within, holding a package that had been left ignored on Margaret's doorstep for several days. Margaret's neighbours had summoned the police after becoming worried. They always kept an eye out for Margaret as they were aware she took on sex work to help pay for her daughter's tuition. As a result, Margaret had met some rough and violent men. Two days earlier in the early hours of February 11, a neighbour had heard a man wearing heavy boots come and go from Margaret's apartment,

but they hadn't seen her since. The officers gained access to Margaret's apartment using a set of spare keys. They moved through the darkened sitting room and into the cramped kitchen. At the back was a bedroom with a locked door. Unable to locate a key, one of the officers kicked the door down. The room inside was pitch black. The officer felt along the wall until he came upon a light switch and clicked it on. The burst of light exposed the bed on the right side of the room. Margaret Lowe lay in it, face up with blankets pulled up to her chin. The officer pulled the covers back slightly, revealing a stocking tied tightly around her neck.

Margaret Lowe bore the brunt of a vicious attack. Several incisions had been made around her groin, with one five-inch-long cut partially exposing her internal organs. Lying near Margaret's legs was a large bread knife, two dinner knives, a paring knife, and a metal fire poker, all of which were used in the attack. A wax candle was found inside her, sourced from a glass candle holder on a nearby mantelpiece. The blackout ripper had now claimed four victims within a two-mile radius in just five days. With each new attack surpassing the previous in severity, police knew that at this pace, he could strike again at any moment.

Later that evening, 30-year-old Margaret Haywood, who was known to friends as Mary, sat alone in a crowded bar in Piccadilly Circus, a short walk from the West End. She was waiting for a date. Minutes ticked by, and Mary soon reached the conclusion that she had been stood up. As 8.30 approached, a well-dressed and handsome young man walked over and took a seat behind her. In a refined British accent, he asked Mary if she would like a drink. Mary said she was waiting for someone, but this didn't dissuade the man. He carried over two glasses of whiskey, handing one to Mary and downing his own with a single swig. He then stared at Mary, enough to make her uncomfortable.

She didn't care for his overconfidence or charisma, but he persisted. Smiling, he asked to take her to dinner, adding, I have to be back at my unit by 10.30. Mary reluctantly agreed, a decision she regretted the longer she spent in the man's company. At one stage, he took a large wad of notes from his wallet and counted 30 pounds in front of her. Understanding that he was trying to proposition her, Mary clarified that she wasn't a sex worker and went to leave. The man persisted, calling her a nice girl, and saying he fancied her. Mary remained firm, but ultimately agreed to give him her phone number.

She wrote it down on a piece of paper that the man slipped into his coat pocket. Mary moved towards the door and the man followed her out, insisting they spent the night together. While Mary found him handsome, she didn't even know his name. She continued to refuse his advances until he seemingly accepted the rejection and said he'd escort her back to Piccadilly Circus. They walked along in silence when all of a sudden the man asked, Do you know that I knocked a girl out once? He said the girl's father had interfered in their relationship, which prompted him to lash out.

It was a strange remark, but the man didn't elaborate. He just continued onwards. Struggling to see through the dark, Mary stumbled on some uneven pavement and took a small flashlight from her back. She had just turned it on when the man yanked it from her hands and switched it off, admonishing her for shining light in the street. It was then that Mary realized they were heading in the wrong direction. Mary pointed this out, but the man brushed off her concerns. He wanted to kiss her and asked Mary if she knew of any bomb shelters nearby. Unsure what to do, Mary walked with him a little longer until he eventually pulled her into an arched doorway. He tried to undress her, but Mary fought back and attempted to run.

The man grabbed her arm, pulled her back, and blocked the entrance to the doorway so she couldn't escape. He then wrapped his hands around Mary's neck. Seemingly in a trance and with little emotion, he pressed his thumbs into Mary's windpipe as she struggled against him. The last thing she heard was the sound of his voice whispering over and over. It was approaching 10 p.m. when 18-year-old John Shine walked through St James's market towards Regent Street. He was passing a shallow side alley when he noticed a flashlight flickering on and off from under a doorway. Driven by curiosity, John headed towards the light when he overheard the sound of a scuffle. Following the noise, John stopped.

He could see a young woman lying in the doorway. A man stood over her, holding the flashlight that had caught John's attention earlier. As soon as the man noticed John's presence, he dropped the flashlight and took off into the darkened surroundings. John rushed towards the woman. It was Mary Haywood. She lay unmoving with her head against the door and legs pointing to the street. Her dress had been torn open and pulled up, exposing her thighs. Her face was dirty and smeared with blood. John knelt down beside Mary when all of a sudden she began to moan in pain. He tried to help Mary to her feet, but her legs were weak and she was disorientated. A police officer who happened to be passing by noticed them and made his way over to help.

Mary began to cry. What has he done? She pointed at her bag which was lying on the ground, its contents scattered about. Just as she went to collect her things, John noticed a small pack lying in the doorway. It was a haversack which was a type of bag typically carried by military personnel. Inside was a gas mask. While the constant fear of being bombed loomed over Londoners, the average person was far more worried about a chemical gas attack. Potentially fatal mustard gas had been deployed during World War I and there was a genuine fear it might be used against civilians again.

As a precautionary measure, the London County Council suggested that civilians carry a gas mask with them at all times. John Shine picked the gas mask up off the ground and asked Mary if it was hers. She said no. Mary Haywood had survived an encounter with the Blackout Ripper. After taking her statement, the attending officer collected the haversack and the gas mask that the killer had left behind. Printed on the bag's inside flap was a Royal Air Force number. 525987 Fight our pilot. The words convey something of the spirit that lies in our squadrons.

Something young and vigorous, decisive, wanting action at once and finding its expression in the struggle going on daily over our southeastern shores. But you have not yet been led into the mind of the men who do the flying, nor shown their feelings when in the air and going into a fight. The long periods of waiting are a test of temperament. Some pilots occupy themselves actively, others pass the time in sleep. Corporal Charles Johnson of the Royal Air Force was stationed at the Air Crew Receiving Centre at St James Close in Regents Park.

At 10.30 that Friday night, the phone rang. On the other end was a police officer. I need you to search records and trace the number of an airman, Corporal Johnson was told. He grabbed a pen. 525987 The number was allotted to leading aircraftman 28-year-old Gordon Cummins. Cummins had arrived at the centre on February 2 to begin training as a fighter pilot. A week later, Evelyn Hamilton was murdered in a bomb shelter less than half a mile away. Corporal Johnson went to inform Cummins that the police wished to speak to him, but he was nowhere to be found. A 10.30pm curfew was in place for cadets,

but it wasn't until 4.30am that Cummins was spotted trying to sneak into his living quarters. He apologised, explaining that he'd been drinking heavily and had trouble making it back in time. It wasn't particularly unusual for cadets to break curfew, as they often ventured into the city at night to let off steam and overindulge. When Cummins was informed that his gas mask had been found at the scene of a crime, he seemed confused. He had his haversack with him with his gas mask inside. However, the number inside the bag confirmed it wasn't his. Cummins then realised what must have happened. He'd been drinking at a pub with other cadets

and had placed his haversack by his feet alongside the others. Someone must have taken his by mistake. The heavily intoxicated Cummins couldn't remember exactly who had joined him that night, and of those he could remember, he didn't know their names. But he was confident he'd be able to recognise them if he saw them again. Cummins was taken to the West End Central Police Station, where he was directly questioned about Mary Haywood. The two had been drinking at the same Piccadilly Circus pub prior to Mary's attack. Cummins spoke of having a hazy recollection of walking around the streets with a woman,

but was too drunk to remember what happened after that. He denied attacking Mary, saying, I remembered I should be back at my depot. I caught a cab and went to Regents Park. Cummins agreed to provide a written statement, during which detectives noticed that he wrote with his left hand. There were also fresh abrasions across his knuckles, which Cummins claimed had occurred when he was working on an aeroplane motor. When asked to view a police line-up that featured Cummins, Mary Haywood unhesitantly identified him as the man who had assaulted her. Cummins maintained his innocence, stating that Mary must have confused him with another airman

who was attempting to frame him. Detectives were unconvinced by his story and placed him under arrest for assault. Inside Cummins' pockets, police found an array of miscellaneous and seemingly trivial items, including a plastic comb with some teeth missing, a fountain tip pen engraved with the initials DJ, and a wristwatch with a broken band that had been repaired with tape. He also had a strip of paper with a number on it. It was Mary Haywood's phone number scrawled in her handwriting. She had told police that she'd given it to her assailant prior to the attack. The question remained, was Gordon Cummins the blackout ripper? Evidence had pointed to the four-time killer being in some way connected to the Royal Air Force. The man who had attempted

to strangle Catherine Mulcahy in her apartment had left behind an item of clothing as he scrambled around in the dark trying to get dressed before fleeing. It was a belt which was part of the Royal Air Force uniform. This aligned with the recollections of the other women who had interacted with the ripper. They all said he claimed to be an airman. Positioned at the entry hall of the St. James Close Aircrew Receiving Center was a logbook. Cadets were required to record the time they left and returned each day with an orderly stationed at the logbook to ensure that everyone complied. A detective flipped through the book to the dates and time periods that Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Doris Duannet, and Margaret Low

were killed. To his surprise, Gordon Cummins' name was signed in on each occasion, meaning he was at the centre when each woman was targeted. Yet something stood out. While some of the logbook entries were penned in ink, others had been scrawled in pencil. All of Cummins' entries coinciding with the time of the murders were in pencil, meaning they could have easily been altered. In some cases, they were written in a different pencil to all the others on the page. An entire page from that week was also missing, with the entries from another date copied into its place. The detective wrote in his report, The booking in book at St. James' Close is far from being a true record of men being off duty.

According to the cadets who bunked with Cummins, he often stayed out past Curfew and snuck back in before dawn. When he went out with others, Cummins would sometimes go off on his own. It was no secret that he was out seeking sex workers. Cummins, with his unruly, wavy blonde hair, trimmed mustache, narrow facial features, and wide smile, was considered an attractive man who often bragged about his conquests. He had earned the reputation amongst his fellow cadets as being a lady's man and a party animal. Women were often charmed by his looks, intellect, and refined British accent as it reflected nobility and wealth. A search of the trashcans outside of the aircrew receiving centre's entrance resulted in an unusual

find, the soles of two shoes with a distinctive tread pattern. Back at the police station, Gordon Cummins was asked to show detectives the soles of his shoes. Surprised, he lifted his feet for the detective to see. The tops of his soles had been replaced with a new tread. Although no discernible boot prints had been uncovered at any of the crime scenes, detectives theorised that Cummins had changed the soles out of fear that their unusual pattern might be traced back to him. When asked to explain why he had recently changed the soles of his shoes, Cummins just shrugged his shoulders.

The aircrew receiving centre was searched extensively, revealing a significant item in the very back of a cupboard in the shared kitchenette. It was a white metal cigarette case engraved with the initials LW. Inside was a photograph of a woman. It didn't resemble any of the victims, but when shown to their loved ones, Evelyn Oatley's former husband identified the case as belonging to his actress wife, who used the stage name Lita Ward. The photograph inside was of her mother. Detective's showed the items found in Gordon Cummins' pockets to the victim's families. Doris Duannet's husband, Henry, immediately recognised the comb, fountain pen and wristwatch

as having belonged to Doris. A connection was also established to Evelyn Hamilton via a green lead pencil that was found in a dustbin in Cummins living quarters. She had borrowed it from a friend shortly before her murder. The night after Evelyn was killed, Cummins was seen flashing a large amount of money. Given that around 80 pounds was stolen from Evelyn's purse, this had likely been her money. Two one-pound notes that the blackout ripper had tossed at Catherine Mulcahy featured serial numbers that were traced back to cash that was paid to Gordon Cummins earlier that day. Traces of blood were found on Cummins' clothing,

but restraints in scientific testing meant it couldn't be compared to the blood of the victims. Yet, there was one test that could provide investigators with a smoking gun. Detective Chief Superintendent Frederick Ceryl had been working the blackout ripper case since the murder of Evelyn Hamilton. Ceryl was the head of Scotland Yards Fingerprint Division and regarded the country's leading fingerprint expert. He had managed to lift several key fingerprints from two of the ripper's crime scenes. Two were uncovered in Evelyn Oatley's apartment. One was on the can opener that was used to mutilate her and the other on a piece of glass in her purse. He'd also found foreign fingerprints on a candle holder in Margaret

Lowe's bedroom. It had held the candle that was later found inside her body. Gordon Cummins' fingerprints were taken upon his arrest and Detective Ceryl cross-checked them against those from the crime scenes. They were a match. Furthermore, traces of mortar on Cummins' haversack matched that found in the bomb shelter where Evelyn Hamilton was murdered. Gordon Cummins was ultimately charged with the murders of Evelyn Hamilton, Evelyn Oatley, Doris Duannet, Margaret Lowe, and the attempted murders of Catherine Mulcahy and Mary Haywood. He was examined by a medical officer to determine if he was suffering from any mental illness that might have influenced his violent behaviour. The doctor concluded,

the character and sights of the wounds inflicted on the victims points to a sadistic basis for the murders. But throughout the period he has been in my care, the accused has been normal in conduct and rational in conversation. At no time has he exhibited any evidence of mental disease. This assessment aligned with those who knew Cummins. While some found him vain and pompous, he had never shown a dark side or a disdain for women. His father described him as a normal person without any cruelty in his nature. Superior officers praised his military discipline and physical abilities which surpassed his fellow cadets. Sex workers he'd been with didn't describe him as aggressive. Cummins also had a wife who steadfastly defended him.

Yet, some noted that he had a gift for storytelling that would convince listeners that whatever he was saying was the truth. He was also caught lying about his whereabouts on the night of the murders, claiming he had alibis that were later disproven. English law dictated that if someone was facing multiple criminal counts, they only faced trial for one. Therefore, in April 1942, Cummins was tried for the murder of Evelyn Oatley. The prosecution felt they were more likely to secure a guilty verdict with this charge, as it was the only one in which Cummins' fingerprints were found on an item directly used to assault the victim. Cummins pleaded not guilty and appeared his typical happy and relaxed

throughout proceedings, even laughing with his lawyers. When he took the stand, Cummins admitted he had been in Evelyn Oatley's company shortly before her murder, but insisted she was alive and well when they parted ways. He had told disinformation to police, but to Cummins dismay, they immediately accused him of being Evelyn's killer. Cummins said one officer remarked, We have a rope around your neck and are going to hang you with it. The officer who Cummins accused of making this threat denided wholeheartedly. The prosecution's case rested primarily on the fingerprint evidence, as it showed Cummins had

handled the sharp can opener used to mutilate Evelyn's genitals. The defense worked to discredit the prints, calling them very faint and imperfect. Renowned fingerprint expert, Detective Chief Superintendent Frederick Cheryl stood by his findings. He was asked, Would you stake your reputation knowing that a man is being tried for his life? Without hesitation, Cheryl responded, Yes. The jury deliberated for only 35 minutes before returning to the courtroom, where Cummins stood before them with fists clenched. The presiding judge summed up that the murder of Evelyn Oatley was a sadistic sexual murder of a ghoulish type. Gordon Cummins was found guilty. When asked if he had anything to say, Cummins started, I am completely innocent, sir.

The judge then donned a square black cap that historically was only ever worn by English judges when delivering the following sentence, quote, There is only one sentence which the law permits me to pronounce, and that is that you be taken to a place of execution, and that you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul. In the lead up to his execution, Gordon Cummins exhausted all avenues of appeal. His family believed in his innocence and wrote to the Home Secretary claiming it was a miscarriage of justice. A petition supporting Cummins received 10,000 signatures, with his supporters highlighting his lack of violent history and clean criminal record. They questioned how someone so

straight and narrow could abruptly begin killing women in such an immensely violent and personal way. The Home Secretary wrote the same response to all letters. I have considered sympathetically and carefully all the circumstances of the case. I regret I have failed to discover any grounds which justify me in advising his majesty to interfere in the due course of the law. In October 1941, just four months before Evelyn Hamilton was killed, the body of 19 year old Maple Church was found in the wreckage of a building destroyed by overhead bombings in London's Camden Town. Maple had been strangled with her undergarments as well as mutilated. Analysis of the wounds showed the killer was

likely left handed. Maple had also been robbed. Four days after Maple's body was discovered, the unconscious body of 49 year old Edith Humphreys was found lying across her bed in her flat just half a mile away. Her skull had been fractured with a penetrating stab wound to her brain and her jaw was broken. There were also signs she had been manually strangled. Edith was still clinging to life and was rushed to hospital but died of her injuries later that day. Reports differ but many say that Edith had been robbed with the jewelry and money missing. With no signs of forced entry, it appeared she had willingly let her killer into her home. A background check showed that Gordon Cummins was in the area when

the murders of Maple Church and Edith Humphreys took place. Despite intensive investigations, both cases remained unsolved. Yet, given their similarities to the blackout ripper's known crimes, many have theorized that Maple and Edith might have been his first victims. To this day, Scotland Yard strongly believes Gordon Cummins was responsible for these crimes. The man himself would never lay claim to any of the murders he was accused of, maintaining his innocence up until June 1942 when he was led to the hangman's noose. He offered no resistance and appeared stoic when the rope was placed around his neck. Gordon Cummins was pronounced dead minutes after 8am to the tune of an air raid siren blasting over

London. At that exact time, city dwellers huddled nervously in makeshift shelters, listening for the sound of encroaching German aeroplanes. For Londoners, their fears had returned to the war, now that the blackout ripper was no longer lurking in the night.