by Neil Storey
After giving her son’s details and confirming he was her only son, Mrs Hoard was asked if he had any enemies. She replied ‘there were two men he had to dismiss when he was at Camden Town’. He had done so on the instruction of the proprietor because of the expense; she though they may have held a grudge because, ‘These two men had wives and children’, but she could not recall who they were. When the culprit of the murder was revealed it was clear these men were not involved.
Dr Temple Gray, the pathologist, in giving his statement of findings, confirmed Mr Dudley Hoard’s death had been ‘due to shock and haemorrhage, multiple scalp wounds and fractures of the skull.’ Gray believed Mr Hoard had been struck down from behind but had got up again and pursued his assailant; ‘I think he was then seized by the throat and his head dashed against a stone wall… there is evidence of a tremendous struggle. He must have been a powerful man.’
Hoping ‘this wilful and callous murder’ would soon be solved the coroner formally adjourned the hearing until 14 September. The following day Mr Hoard’s body was removed from the Poplar Mortuary to the home of his mother at Croydon; he was later buried in Croydon cemetery.
Meanwhile the investigation of the murder case and the country-wide manhunt were soon to be concluded, but under truly bizarre circumstances. A letter was received at an address in East London from the wanted man in which he claimed the police would suspect he had something to do with the ‘London cinema affair’ and that he intended to change his name to ‘Jack Barnard’. He gave his address as a lodging house in Lowestoft. This letter was soon in the hands of the police. On the morning of Wednesday 9 August the face of the wanted man was all over the national press and Mrs Alice Tripp, the keeper of the lodging house – who already had her suspicions aroused from the man’s manner upon arrival – had her suspicions confirmed that he was the London cinema murderer and contacted the police. The information from both sources arrived at Lowestoft Police almost simultaneously and officers were soon at Mrs Tripp’s lodging house. Searching his room they found a bloodstained suit, shirt and collar – but no suspect. Mrs Tripp had only read the paper after he had left, saying he was off to Yarmouth for the day.
Then, that same day, a locally postmarked letter was received by Lowestoft Police in Suffolk, addressed to the station inspector. It read:
Dear Sir
By the time you get this letter I shall be dead as I am going to drown myself. I want to confess to attacking Mr and Mrs Hoard at 7.40 a.m. on Tuesday. I am very sorry I killed him, as I did not intend to. I am writing you this as I cannot possibly go on any longer. I do not get any sleep as a picture haunts my brain and I cannot face the ordeal of a trial.
He then sent his love and sympathy to his sweetheart Miss Roake, continuing,
I hope she will forgive me. Sir, would you be so kind as to see that she gets the 30s which is to my credit in the P.O. book. I cannot go into details. I cannot bear to think of it. I am sorry for what I have done.
(signed) J.F. Stockwell
John Frederick ‘Johnny’ Stockwell, one of the Bow Road cinema attendants, was the man named by the police as ‘wanted’ to assist with their enquiries into the cinema murder – indeed, he was their number one suspect. His clothes were discovered neatly piled up on a lonely section of Lowestoft beach, his wrist watch and the post-office book mentioned in the pitiful letter among them. The problem with this apparent ‘suicide’ was that the subterfuge itself was pitiful. The section of the beach proved not to be as secluded as the killer thought and a holidaymaker out for an early morning stroll found the clothes little more than moments after they were left there. The letter had clearly been posted after the clothes were discovered. So, either a naked man walked across town and posted the letter and then waded into the water and drowned himself, or he just dumped the clothes there, changed into another suit and just walked away – but surely he would not have been foolish enough to go just where he told his landlady he was going?
On the afternoon of that same day a young man walked into The Metropolitan Hotel in Great Yarmouth and signing his name in the register as ‘J.F. Smith, 138 London Road, Luton, Hertfordshire.’ The hotel manager found it rather odd that a man who claimed to live there would not have known that Luton is in Bedfordshire. Again, the young man had aroused the suspicions of the manager, and he too contacted the police with his suspicions the following morning. Great Yarmouth police were soon on the scene and arrested ‘Smith’ – it was Johnny Stockwell. On the way to the police station – after complaining, ‘Don’t hold me so tight’ – the man confessed, ‘My name is Stockwell, not Smith. I know I am wanted for robbery.’ When questioned about the murder, he admitted, ‘Every bit of it is true; I am guilty of the crime.’ Scotland Yard were informed and after a night and a morning in the cells at Yarmouth Borough police station, Stockwell was picked up at 1.50 p.m. on Saturday 11 August by Chief Inspector Sharpe. When cautioned, Stockwell replied: ‘The only thing I can say is that I did not intend to kill him.’
He was driven back to London, escorted by Chief Inspector Sharpe and another officer. Only a small crowd of about thirty stood outside the Yarmouth police station as the car departed, but the news had got out and a large crowd of some 500 people awaited them in front of Bow Road police station, lining the route to the police yard gates three deep; the press recorded:
The car turned into Addington Street from the opposite end to that anticipated by the crowd, but there was still a rush to get a view of the occupants. In a few seconds the car, with drawn blinds, shot across the pavement and swung sharp right into the station yard and the gates promptly shut. The main doors of the police station were locked and constables posted at each corner of the building. Within minutes of his arrival Stockwell was formally charged and he was brought before Thames Police Court on Monday 13 August. Again, a large crowd awaited Stockwell’s arrival on Charles Street and hoped to catch a glimpse of him but most were disappointed as the small saloon car drew up at the side entrance to the yard of the court and hustled in by a side door by a plain clothes officer. The proceedings at Thames Police Court were brief, the circumstances of the crime and arrest read out, Stockwell chose to remain silent; the officer beside him articulating Stockwell’s request for legal aid and his wish to see some of his friends – both requests were granted and Stockwell was remanded until 21 August. The whole proceedings lasted less than five minutes.
1934 advert for The Metropolitan Hotel, Marine Parade, Great Yarmouth, where the Palace Axe Murderer was finally arrested.
Marine Parade, Great Yarmouth in the mid-1930s.
Stockwell’s next appearance heard the case and statement and his plea of ‘not guilty’. At this hearing it was revealed Stockwell had deposited a case, in which was concealed £90 from the robbery, at Aldgate East Station. Chief Inspector Sharpe then referred to his notes and related a conversation he had with Stockwell in the car while travelling from Yarmouth to London. Quoting Stockwell, he stated:
I first thought of doing this last Saturday. On Sunday night I found the axe in the yard where I was living – Leader’s. When I went with my girl to the bus on Tuesday I carried the axe under my coat. I left her and went straight to the cinema. I got in by shaking the door at front and twisting the handle. I went to the flat, rang the bell, and Mr Hoard came to the door. I said ‘I have left a ten-bob note in the hall – can I come in and look for it?’ He said, ‘Certainly.’ He went to close the door when I pulled it open and tried to hit him with the axe. He ran into the room and I followed him, and hit him on the head with the axe from behind. He fell, and I hit him several times again with the axe. His wife came out of the bedroom and I hit her on the head with the axe. I don’t know if I hit her on the ground.
Stockwell then seemed to wander into a strange account of how he tried to put Mr Stockwell on the bed and then took his keys, opened the safe and fled with the money – there was no mention of the death struggle on the stairs. Stockwell continued, ‘I hid the axe behind the sta
ge and went home.’ He then related his movements and action until arrest at Great Yarmouth. Further evidence was presented, and Stockwell was ordered to appear at the Old Bailey. Throughout the proceedings Stockwell himself sat with his hands folded staring at the floor.
On Monday 23 October John Stockwell was brought before the Central Criminal Court; he appeared in the dock wearing an open-necked shirt. Mr Justice Goddard presided, the prosecution was led by Mr G.B. McClure (with Mr Eustace Fulton), and Mr Frederick Levy acted for the defence. Levy stated he had received written instructions and stated, ‘Having examined the case from every aspect, the solicitor and himself felt it would be a lamentable farce to go through with the case to its bitter end with an inevitable result.’ Stockwell changed his plea to ‘guilty.’
The written instruction was given to the judge, who asked: ‘is that your signature?’
Stockwell: Yes.
Judge: You understand what you are doing?
Stockwell: Yes.
Clerk of the Court: You have pleaded not guilty to this indictment. Do you wish to alter that plea?
Stockwell (with a firm voice): I do.
Clerk of the Court: What say you now?
Stockwell: Guilty, my Lord.
Mr Frederick Levy then addressed the jury with an impassioned plea to them for some recommendation of mercy in their verdict. In part of his address he said:
You have before you a boy of 19 who from the age of 11 had no protected childhood. His father was killed in action when he was one year old and his mother died when he was 11. He was thrown upon the world and had to depend upon relatives… I ask the jury to do what they can to save this young man.
The judge did not direct the jury otherwise and when returning the verdict of ‘guilty’ also strongly recommended him to mercy. When asked if he had anything to say, Stockwell replied in a firm voice, ‘I am deeply sorry for this tragedy.’
When addressing Stockwell, Justice Goddard pointed out he had accepted the change of plea because he was in the hands of an experienced counsel and because the judge had a report from the medical officer at Brixton Prison to certify his sanity. He then went on to state there was no doubt of Stockwell’s guilt, but in conclusion, ‘If any ray of light is to be found in this dark and tragic story, it is that by your confession and the course you are now taking you are showing some remorse for a crime as terrible as any recorded in the grim annals of this court.’ He then pronounced sentence of death. Stockwell stood rigidly, as if at attention, as the words left the judge’s lips, he then turned and walked firmly away as he was taken down.
Despite the recommendation for mercy and public concerns expressed about a boy of 19 facing the gallows there was to be no reprieve for Johnny Stockwell. He was hanged by Robert Baxter, assisted by Robert Wilson, at Pentonville Prison on Wednesday 14 November 1934.
10
MURDER AT THE
BLIND BEGGAR
Ronald Kray, 1966
The Kray twins were born on 17 October 1933; the sons of Charles Kray (26), a dealer in second hand clothes, and his wife, Violet (21). With their older brother, Charlie, they spent much of their early life on Burdett Road, moving to Valance Road in Bethnal Green in 1939. Violet was a strong and loving mother, and as the boys grew up and got a reputation for fighting she was always quick to defend them, saying, ‘It’s never them what starts the trouble, but because they’re twins they stand out and always get the blame.’ As the twins matured they built up quite a business based around the protection racket – any trouble in pubs or snooker halls and the boys will ‘sort it out’ – for a fee of about £5 a night. Some publicans saw no point in paying for protection, but very soon they would be rushed by a gang of thugs who would attack customers with coshes and razors – and let’s face it, that is bad for business.
The Kray brothers were canny businessmen too and with the money they soon amassed they took over the Regal billiard hall and a variety of clubs and bars, notably the Double R cabaret club (named after their initials) on Bow Road. They became local – and indeed, London – celebrities in their own right. The Krays were snappy dressers: wearing finely tailored Savile Row-style suits, they drove the latest Jaguar cars and were regularly featured in magazines and papers with stars of the time such as Diana Dors, Barbara Windsor and Freddie Mills. The boys were respected across the East End, they gave money to charitable organisations and many East Enders were to recall they felt safer ‘and could leave their front door unlocked’ when the Krays were in charge. Indeed, if you lived in the East End and were not part of the underworld scene you would have had little to fear from them: most folks knew what they were up to and would not ‘mess them about’. The Kray boys doted on their Mum and respectfully called her ‘our Queen’; at the height of their success in the mid-1960s anyone being less than respectful of Mrs Kray would soon regret their actions, as indeed would anyone getting above themselves on the Kray’s ‘manor’ (or made adverse comments about the Krays themselves). Punishments meted out could range from beatings of varying degrees of violence or branding with a hot iron to a quick slash across the face or buttocks with a razor – as Ronnie said, ‘so every time the bastards sit down they remember me.’
But some pushed too far, among them George Cornell. Cornell had grown up on the streets of the East End and was a hard man, 6ft tall, well built, handy with his fists. He had a reputation for taking a sadistic pleasure in violence and had served a prison term for slashing a woman’s face. He had married skilful shoplifter Olive Hutton and moved to the Elephant and Castle, and by the mid-1960s had become a tough enforcer for the Richardson brothers and was suspected by Scotland Yard of being a contract killer. The old story which keeps being regurgitated is that Cornell had developed an unhealthy (for him) contempt for the Krays and had called Ronnie a ‘fat poof’. According to ‘Mad’ Frankie Fraser, Ronnie Kray and others involved at the time, this was not the case. Although Ronnie did admit later in life that he was bisexual, at the time if someone had called Ronnie such a name it would have been seen as an insult, pure and simple, and Cornell would have been, in the eyes of gangland, justifiably ‘chinned’ there and then. Fraser recalls Cornell was often used as ‘middle man’ in negotiations between the Richardsons and the Krays. On one occasion he had been approached by the Krays about ‘a job’ but Cornell felt it just could not be done. As the Krays pressed him to join the scheme, he disrespectfully told them to ‘fuck off’ and angered Ronnie. If Ronnie had lashed out against Cornell at that moment reprisals from the Richardsons could well have led to an all-out gang war, so Ronnie bided his time.
In Murders of the Black Museum Gordon Honeycombe states that by 1966 an all-out gang war existed between the Krays and the Richardsons; attempts had been made on the lives of the Krays, and their cousin, Richard ‘Dickie’ Hart, had been gunned down during a shoot-out between the Richardsons and a local gang at the Mr Smith and the Witchdoor bar in Catford. Reprisals were called for to avenge the death of Hart – ‘one of theirs for one of ours’. Most of the Richardsons had been sent down as a result of the Catford shooting – with the exception of Cornell, who was not present at the club shooting – so Cornell no longer had the backup of the Richardsons and Ronnie was not going to forget the disrespect he had been shown.
On the evening of 9 March 1966 news reached the Krays that George Cornell had brazenly walked onto their ‘manor’ and was having a drink in The Blind Beggar pub on the Mile End Road. In fact, Cornell and his pal Albie Woods had been to the hospital to visit Jimmy Andrews, who had lost his leg in a shooting, and had called in to The Blind Beggar for a drink on the way back.
When they received the telephone call informing them about Cornell, the Krays were drinking with some of their ‘firm’ at ‘The Widow’s’ on Tapp Street (real name The Lion, but so nicknamed after the landlady’s husband had died). Reg suggested they talk about their actions, but Ronnie had made his mind up – taking Reggie’s driver, John ‘Scotch Jack’ Dickson, and Ian Barrie they drove ov
er to The Blind Beggar in their Ford Cortina, picking up shooters on the way. When they arrived Dickson stayed with the car as Kray and Barrie entered the pub at about 8.30 p.m. Accounts vary between twelve and thirty people being in the pub at the time (one man I knew personally said he was drinking in the pub on the night in question and was urged ‘by a friend’ not to be around – no names were mentioned but he was left in no doubt ‘something was going to happen’ and left quick sharp. He only learnt about the events of the night before when he read the morning papers). Cornell and Woods were sitting at the bar on stools and had ordered light ales. Cornell turned to see who had come in, then realising who it was sneered and said sarcastically, ‘Well, look who’s here.’ Ronnie was now at point blank range, and without saying a word – and with one smooth motion – he drew the 9mm Mauser automatic pistol he was carrying from the shoulder holster concealed beneath his jacket and shot Cornell once in the forehead, just above his right eye, turned on his heels and exited just as calmly as he strode in. Cornell slumped onto a column and slid down, dying, to the floor. As the ringing in the barmaid’s and customer’s ears died down and they began to compose themselves after the shock of what had happened, they noticed that the juke box – which had been playing the Walker Brothers hit ‘The Sun Ain’t Gonna Shine Anymore’ – was stuck on the words ‘Anymore… Anymore… Anymore.’
Within ten minutes detectives were on the scene, but, of course, no one had seen anything: the line was that Cornell was the only customer and the bar staff were all out the back at the time of the shooting. There was even a line up, including Ronnie Kray, at Commercial Street police station, but the barmaid failed to recognise anyone as the killer, explaining she had ‘a bad memory for faces.’