by Neil Storey
The Illustrated Police News’ cover story of the murder of Leon Beron.
Leon Beron.
Post-mortem photograph of Beron: note the impressions left about his head from the blows of the ‘burglar’s jemmy’.
Abinger: What did you say in the Court below, dealing with these facial injuries?
Needham: They could not have been produced accidentally. They could not have been caused by the face passing over something rough on the ground; they were cuts with a knife… I thought it was extraordinary that anyone should have stopped to inflict such wounds; they were not dangerous to life.
Abinger: Did you say that you thought they were some sign?
Needham: Yes, I said that at the Coroner’s Court.
Abinger: Do you know the word ‘spic,’ which is Russian?
Needham: No.
Abinger: Meaning false spy?
Needham: No.
Abinger: Or ‘spikan’, the Polish word for spy?
Needham: No, at the time I knew nothing about it.
Abinger: Did you know the word ‘Sorregio,’ the Camorra sign?
The surgeon did not know this either, but commented he had since learnt of the significance from the press. At this Mr Justice Darling brought the exchange to a close by interjecting: ‘We must not have this.’ Detective Wensley also gave evidence later at the trial and flatly denied Beron was a police informer.
But the seed was planted, and those apparently crudely-cut letters incised into each of his cheeks became a clear suggestion, repeated in the press and by some subsequent crime historians, that Beron was a spy and a police informer and one who gave up members of the gang responsible for the Houndsditch Murders. Morrison, who had a murky background and also probably came from Russia, stood trial in March 1911. Whether he carved the S’s for a reason or not he never revealed. Either way, he was found guilty of the murder. A number of witnesses had placed Morrison in Beron’s company on New Year’s Eve, but the pivotal evidence against him came mostly from a driver who identified Morrison as the man he took in his cab from near the scene of the crime at the relevant time. Although convincing enough for the jury, the evidence was considered ‘dubious’ by the judge (who said as much in his summing up) and this view was shared by many others. After an appeal hearing, the matter was placed into the hands of the Home Secretary, who preferred not to intercede either way and recommended the exercise of Royal Prerogative. Morrison was given a prison sentence rather than face the gallows. Morrison then appealed against this judgement on no less than four occasions – he would rather swing than endure prison! The prison sentence remained, so did his grievance – year after year Morrison continued to protest by being a morose and difficult prisoner who went on successive hunger strikes. He died in Parkhurst Prison infirmary on 24 January 1921.
Steinie Morrison in the dock at the South-Western Police Court.
8
SECOND TIME AROUND
William Cronin (1897 & 1925)
The victory for the strikers in the Great Dock Strike of 1889 had established strong trade unions amongst London dockers, especially among the poorest unskilled casual labourers. Solidarity among the workers was shown to be the key to success and anyone who broke with those striking would be labelled a ‘black leg’ and frequently became prey to abuse, intimidation and violence, especially among the coal porters who were ‘a tough breed and a strong element in the strike.’ Almost ten years later, in July 1897, the river workmen came out on strike over pay.
Henry Cuthbert was the father of a young family who could not afford to strike. On the night of 23 July 1897 he went to the Richard Cobden beerhouse on Repton Street, Limehouse. Shortly before closing time Cuthbert was recognised by coal porter William Cronin (27) who called over, ‘You are the man that works on the wood boats?’ Cuthbert replied, ‘Yes, anywhere to earn a shilling.’ Cronin challenged him, ‘you work for three shillings a day and others get five.’ Cuthbert could sense Cronin was drawing attention and becoming aggressive; not wanting any trouble – and as the pub was soon closing – Cuthbert walked out the building and set off to return to his home at 16 Carr Street. But Cronin was fired up by his union fervour and the drink he had consumed and decided to follow.
Cuthbert’s house was a short distance from the beerhouse and his wife Eliza had left the older children inside watching their baby as she went outside. She saw Cronin having words with her husband on the street: Cronin was shouting at Cuthbert about the strike – when he hit out at Cuthbert, Eliza ran over and Cronin also lashed out at her, striking her shoulder and sending her onto the ground. When she collected herself and got back inside her house, to her horror she discovered the baby she had left inside had been injured about the head. It was claimed that Cuthbert had gone into the yard of their house and was followed again by Cronin who, while in the yard, armed himself with an iron spade and strode into the Cuthbert’s kitchen. He snarled ‘First come first served!’ Upon which he struck 10-month-old baby Eliza across the head with the spade.
Casually employed dockers waiting to see if there was any work for the day, c. 1896.
The West India dock as Cronin would have known it.
Gurney Ward at the London Hospital.
A police constable was nearby and Cronin was soon under arrest for maliciously cutting and wounding the child. He did come quietly – perhaps the sight of a uniform and the reality of his horrific actions sobered him up – and he said, ‘All right governor, they set on me first.’ At Thames Police Court, Constable A. Pinchin stated Cronin had said, ‘I hope the child dies and I shall get hung.’ The poor babe was rushed to the London Hospital, but sadly died.
Evidence showed that the baby had suffered a slight wound about 2½in long on the left side of the head which had cut through to the bone. The frontal bone was fractured. An operation was performed in an attempt to raise the depression, but the child died the following day from loss of blood and shock as a direct result of the injuries inflicted by Cronin. By the time of his appearance before the magistrate on 30 July, the coroner’s jury had already returned a verdict against Cronin and the magistrate, Mr Dickinson, committed William John Cronin for trial on a charge of wilful murder.
Cronin appeared at the Central Criminal Court on 15 September 1897 before Mr Justice Bruce. Mr C.F. Gill and Mr Bodkin led for the prosecution but were no match for Mr E.P.S. Counsel who led a skilful defence bringing forward witnesses, notably Henry Corcoran who claimed he had seen Cuthbert attack Cronin with the spade first and suggested that the blow to the child’s head had been caused accidentally during the scuffle. Cronin himself claimed he had never entered Cuthbert’s house and claimed, at that time, he was with a Mary Farrow. The jury were certainly persuaded enough to believe that there were some grounds for reasonable doubt over Cronin’s culpability for wilful murder, and he was found guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter – a verdict that undoubtedly saved him from the gallows… for the time being.
Mr Justice Bruce had seen from Cronin’s record that he had previously been convicted of assault and postponed judgement. On Friday 17 September 1897 Cronin was sentenced to seven years penal servitude.
Twenty-eight years later in 1925, when Cronin was 54, he was working as a ship’s fireman living, when he was not away ‘on the boats’, at 126 Old Church Road, Stepney with Mrs Alice Garratt who had had met through visits to see his sister Emma Jane Sartain; Alice had lived on the floor below. Garrett was a widow, her husband had died the previous year and it was not long after that she and Cronin began living together.
Their relationship was one punctuated with quarrels so fierce they were overheard and the subject of concern among their neighbours. On the night of Friday 12 June 1925 one formidable row erupted between Cronin and Garratt. He claimed his sister had informed him that while he was away at sea Garratt had entertained other men, an accusation vehemently denied by Garratt (Cronin’s sister also denied she made any such allegation about Garratt when later questioned about it in court
.)
During the argument Garrett was heard to cry out ‘Murder!’ by William and Rose Blanks, who lived next-door at 128 Old Church Road. Deeply concerned, William Blanks went round to investigate and to his horror discovered ‘Alice’s head was hanging off’. Clearly in a state of shock, he returned to his waiting wife. Rose Blanks bravely went to investigate for herself. As she entered the house, Cronin pushed past her and made for the street. Aware that Cronin may well be attempting to make his getaway Alice followed him onto the street and shouted ‘Stop him!’ A passer-by named Charles James Edmead threw himself onto Cronin, eventually managing to pin him to the ground – but not before Cronin lashed out at him with a razor he was carrying, causing a nasty slash across one of Edmead’s fingers. In the meantime William Blanks had gone in search of a constable and rapidly Cronin was arrested, restrained with hand cuffs and removed to the police station.
Cronin was remanded at Thames Police Court on Saturday 13 June 1925 and brought to trial at the Central Criminal Court on Friday 17 July before Mr Justice Swift. Cronin was defended by Mr W.A.L. Raeburn, who stood little chance against the strong evidence so eloquently presented against his client by the prosecuting counsels, Mr Percival Clarke and Mr G.D. Roberts. The jury did not leave its box to return the unanimous verdict of ‘guilty’, and Cronin was sentenced to death – to which Cronin contemptuously retorted, ‘Thank you sir. I am very glad that you have sentenced an innocent man to death.’
On Thursday 30 July 1925 Cronin’s appeal against the death sentence was heard. The Lord Chief Justice in giving the judgement of the court said,
the defence raised at the trial was that a man other than Cronin had committed the crime while he (Cronin) was asleep… When Mrs Garrett was found dead her little children were also found asleep in the same bed. Attention had been drawn to various passages in the summing up but there was nothing of an adverse character to be said about the direction of the judge. It had been complained that the jury had come to their conclusion in two minutes but it would have been more a matter of comment if the jury had taken longer to arrive at the very proper conclusion which they had expressed.
The appeal was dismissed and the Home Secretary decided he was unable to advise any interference with the sentence of death. William John Cronin shared the gallows with another (unassociated) murderer, Arthur Henry Bishop (18), in a double execution carried out by Robert Baxter, assisted by Henry Pollard, Edward Taylor and Robert Wilson at Pentonville Prison on Friday 14 August 1925.
9
AXE MURDER AT
THE PALACE
John Frederick Stockwell, 1934
Monday 6 August 1934 was very much like any other Monday at the Eastern Palace Cinema (later re-named the Regal Cinema), which stood opposite Bow Church on the Bow Road. The last of the evening features crackled to an end, the crowd stood and left and the air was filled with a hubbub of chat, cigarette smoke and the sound of the squeak and thud of hundreds of velour-covered seats filled the air as the auditorium emptied for the night. Cinema manager Mr Dudley Henry Hoard (40) and his wife Maisie, somewhat weary from the day, retired to their flat above with their Persian cat Minnie. Dudley Hoard had enjoyed a lifetime in theatre; he had left school to perform at Sadlers Wells and then toured playing in pantomime, revue and drama and met his wife, a native of Newcastle-on-Tyne, when touring with the same company. After serving with the London Regiment during the First World War, Mr Hoard produced pantomimes at Liverpool and further productions around the country but decided to give up the demanding touring theatre life and enter the cinema business, learning the trade in Nottingham and eventually returning to London as the live-in manager at the Palace in March 1934 – probably not the dream of their own names in lights over the door, but they were happy.
Early on the morning of Tuesday 7 August the cleaning ladies were perturbed to find the doors of the cinema still locked. They had to wait for a key holder to let them in to start work – but when inside, to their horror, they discovered a trail of blood on the stairs to the upper circle which led to the partially clothed and bloody body of Dudley Hoard on the balcony. Another cleaner bravely followed the gory trail back up to the Hoard’s flat, where the body of Mrs Maisie Hoard was discovered in her night attire. She too had been battered about the head – both victims had suffered horrific injuries inflicted by what was initially described as ‘a blunt instrument’ but showed signs of life, although both were unconscious. The police and ambulance were summoned and the Hoards removed to St Andrew’s Hospital where Mr Hoard died shortly afterwards without regaining consciousness. However, Mrs Hoard rallied and, despite her injuries, she regained consciousness and managed to talk to the detectives at her hospital bedside. She gave a brief description of her assailant and was confident she would recognise him again. By the evening the hospital authorities issued a statement that ‘Mrs Hoard was progressing favourably and every hope of her recovery was entertained.’
Detectives investigating the crime scene soon found evidence of a desperate struggle between Mr Hoard and his assailant. His slippers spoke volumes: the leather uppers and soles were coloured by the distemper on the walls of the staircase which led to the balcony where his body was found – looking at the marks, gouges and bloodstains along the walls of those stairs it was clear Dudley Hoard had fought violently up every one of those thirty stairs. Mr David Weinberg, joint owner of the cinema, knew Mr Hoard would have ‘fought like a tiger’, and Mr Hoard’s father stated, ‘My son was tall and very strong and not one to give in.’ One silent witness was poor Minnie the cat, who was seen around the cinema in a state of terror, her coat matted, probably with blood, and limping as if she had been kicked.
The detectives faced a mystery – who did it? Was it one man, two or a gang? Did they get in by deception, hiding in the cinema or just break in? One thing was soon clear: the motive. The safe had been ransacked and emptied of a sum thought to be about £100.
After a late-night conference on 7 August, detectives decided to concentrate on tracing the owner of a waterproof coat which had been found in the sitting room of the flat. The investigating officers were satisfied the coat had not been the property of the Hoards and ‘on one cuff of the coat some hair was noticed and the sleeves were pulled inside out’, a clear indication the garment had been wrenched off the assailant’s back during the struggle.
At 1 a.m. on Wednesday 8 August, Scotland Yard issued the following statement:
The manager of the cinema was attacked by a man who probably concealed himself on the premises and from whom he received injuries from which he has since died. His wife also received head injuries probably caused by blows with a hammer and is now in hospital. She is expected to recover. The key of a safe is missing from the flat and a sum of money is missing from the manager’s office. The man who is described as being 22 years of age, 5ft 10in or over, complexion pale, clean shaven, long, dark hair, dressed in a dark suit and no hat is believed to have left the cinema by an exit door at the rear at about 4.30 a.m. on 7 August.
It is possible he hired a taxi-cab near the scene of the crime. His clothing is probably considerably bloodstained. The police will be glad of any information from the public which is likely to assist in the inquiries.
The following day, Wednesday 8 August, saw another piece towards solving the puzzle announced in the press. Detectives conducting a search of wasteland outside the back of the cinema discovered the murder weapon – a short hatchet with stains of blood on its edge (in later accounts and in court it was stated the axe was found in a lumber room behind the stage in the cinema). A bloody thumb print known not to be that of Mr Hoard was also discovered on the stairs. In the days before simple ‘lift off’ adhesive tape to remove fingerprints for analysis and preservation as evidence, police had no option other than to carefully chip out and remove ‘about a square foot’ of the plaster that contained the print. A piece of rubber flooring bearing two imprints of hand and footprints was also removed from the stalls for examination.
Discovered immediately below the front of the balcony, it was suggested that perhaps this indicated Mr Hoard’s killer had jumped or was forced from the balcony by his victim and fell the 20ft below – thus denying the attacker a coup de grace, Mr Hoard stumbled some way back towards the stairs but collapsed and passed out through loss of blood and shock.
This was also the day the police informed Mrs Hoard of her husband’s death, an announcement made all the more bitter when it was discovered that the day also marked the couple’s wedding anniversary.
Newspaper reports went on to state:
The opening hour of the cinema was delayed while Scotland Yard cameramen took photographs of various parts of the building. A long queue waited outside. When the doors were finally opened it was announced that no seats could be occupied in the upper circle and the balcony which have been closed by the police.
But, in this case, the arm of the law was reaching powerfully in the direction of one man – the man recognised by Mrs Hoard, a man she knew by sight and name from before the attack. Over 9–10 August the suspect’s name, photograph and detailed description were circulated to police and press across the country:
Aged 19, height 5ft 7 or 8in., complexion pale, hair light brown, fairly long, parted at the side, eyes brown, long face. When last seen was wearing a dark brown suit, cream coloured shirt, with soft collar to match, and brown shoes. He seldom wears a hat or cap and has a small camera.
Friday 10 August saw the inquest opened at Poplar Coroner’s Court with Dr R.L. Guthrie, coroner, presiding. Particular sympathy was recorded for Dudley Hoard’s elderly mother, ‘a small white-haired lady, who leaned heavily on the arm of a daughter.’ Murmurs of sympathy were heard from across the court as these two figures, dressed all in black, passed into the tiny oak-panelled court-room.
