S2 E10: Olga Hangs Up Her Whip

the woman agreed to share her cab with him. I should have been back by eleven o'clock, the amin murmured inside the vehicle, but he cannot have been very concerned about being a wall for He then asked, could I spend an hour with you? I will give you two pounds as a present. Between jobs. At the time, the woman occasionally took men back to her flat for money, and this seemed like a reasonable offer, so she permitted him to accompany her up the stairs to her apartment.

We can't be sure of the address, nor even the woman's name. Those particulars were entered on a police report about her brush with death, but then redacted with thick black swipes of a pen for reasons unknown. We do know that the woman noticed that her guest boots were shabby. Too shabby, she thought, given his posh manner of speech. When she went to remove her skirt, he stopped her. That won't be necessary. I only want to talk. I've been drinking too much. The woman was surprised, but she

was happy to play along. The airmand told her that he'd been at the Brassery Universal that evening and left his gas mask behind. Whren't you get into trouble being out in the street without one, asked, No one will see me at this time of night. The woman studied his face. He looked tired, especially around the eyes, and it seems she wanted to be kind. I have one

ear you can have. She gave him a spare military gas mask she just happened to have lying around, And they sat and chatted a little while longer, but all the while the man that slipped no detail of the true events of the last few hours. For the man sat quietly talking in this flat had tried to strangle Gretta Heyward in the street, and then Catherine mulcahey in her own bed, and undiscovered in her flat by Hyde Park, Doris Choane's body they torn and broken, just as he'd

left her. As four am approached, the man made his move, making sure he had the woman's name, telephone number, and probably noting down on her address. With care, Gordon Cummins crossed the room and left. He had what he needed from this woman. He would let her live, for she was his alibi. Donning his overcoat and picking up his new gas mask, the darkness of the night swallowed him

up once more. This is the seldom told story of women in World War Two who were killed not by the enemy, but by husbands, lovers, and strangers wearing the uniform of their own side. It's also the tale of a particular string of murder victims that history has swept from view. I'm Helli Rubinhold and I'm Alice Fines and you're listening to bad women the blackout Ripper. Where's that? In hifteen minutes late? Already Wine Cuntry's going to the

Dog's honest. The Edgeware Road from the traffic bicycles wove through a long line of buses and taxis that nose to tail inched north from Hyde Park towards the suburbs. You drive and Grandma be up now, Johnny, come along I haven't gone enough to do for a good boy, and don't keep stopping. Harried housewives pounded the pavements, scolding their children as they struggled under the burden of that day's grocery shopping. When we going, your father wouldn't bother

you've been to me today. It rang with the excited chatter of theater goers off to see variety acts at the Metropolitan, and it pulsated too, with vice in hotels and furnished rooms. Even in Hyde Park itself, women sold sex to working classmen and more affluent clients alike. The Edgeware Road was grimier and seedier than nearby soho accommodation here could be had, chiefly making it an economical workplace for women looking to earn tidy profits in the sex trade.

Perhaps this was why Doris Robson chose two forty Edgeware Road as her home in her late twenties. She appears to have seen an advert for a large bedsitting room very comfortable, and set herself up there. Doris had been born in England's northeast. She'd likely experienced prejudice growing up because raised by a single mother and an aunt, she'd been born out of wedlock, she was illegitimate, a bastard.

While some were kind to single mothers, moralizers pronounced them bad women, warning that their offspring would tainted and would only grow up to be trouble. But now Doris was making her own way in the world, and she'd totally cast off that childhood identity. She introduced herself to her new next door neighbor, Peggy Hemmings, not as Doris, but as Olga. Perhaps Doris wanted to create an air of

continental mystique and sophistication. Olga suggested roots in central or eastern Europe, the name of an ex child white Russian countess. Even tall, willowy and fair haired, Doris was said to be refined and well educated. She was also hot tempered. Olga was temperamental and at times was very moody. Neatly dressed and manicured, Doris projected an image of glamor, but occasionally the mask slipped and her poison confidence would falter.

When she walked, she stooped a little, as though embarrassed by her statuesque frame and hoping to appear more dainty. Doris seems to have enjoyed life in London and was known to peruse the grand West End department store Selfridges. Oh I like that suit, isn't it? Oh? I love Lily of the Valley, my favorite scent. But apparently her modest upbringing had left a lasting impression. According to Peggy, Doris was thrifty, seldom she brought any new clothes and

was careful when spending. Even though Peggy didn't know Doris by her real name, she believed they shared a unique and profound bond. I do not think that any woman knew her private affairs as I did. Doris indeed kept her secrets closely guarded, presenting one face to certain people in her life and a different face entirely to others. The polo part is very popular, sir, but I will

also recommend Filia de Solmone wonderful. The bar at Danino's was one of Doris's favorite haunts for you, Madam, and the luxurious hotel and restaurant marketed itself as the center of the world and boasted an exquisite cabaret, the finest cuisine in Europe, and nightly dancing. The establishment stood proudly behind Grand Colonnades on Regent Street at the confluence of racy, Soho,

ritzy Piccadilly and stately Mayfair. According to one friend, Doris liked to pick up clients here because there are niether class, and those clients had to be of a nicer class because her services were expensive. Olga was not the ordinary type, said Peggy Hemmings. She had whips and tight fitting corsets, and often, she told me, she enjoyed unusual methods. Doris's methods may not have been the norm, but they were far from unusual. In fact, they were a long established

feature of the London sex scene. In the Victorian era, certain brothels had become well known for providing so called perversions. Establishments like Mary Jeffrey's house in Chelsea were frequented by a prominent and influential clientele who visited for bondage, caning and whipping. And when in the nineteen thirties Parisian Mark Watts came to London, she was surprised to discover just how many of her clients had a pension for masochism

and domination. One wanted her to file her nails to points and gouge at his skin until he led Others asked to be bound and beaten. Mart had worked all over the world, but even she was surprised by the frequency of these requests. In Italy and Spain and even North Africa, I had never seen anybody who wanted this. Doris might have been taking her West End clients back to the comparatively dingy Edgeware Road, but she was charging

them handsomely for the privilege. She left a little book of names and telephone numbers of the men that visited her. She used to get good money for what she did. For instance, ten pounds would not be exceptional for one meeting. Compared to the wages of the Great Depression, ten pounds would be roughly equivalent to two thousand dollars today. That book of names and telephone numbers was important too. Doris met her clients and bars and restaurants, but she also

liked to make appointments over the telephone. The use of such technology was increasingly common in sex work. More people had phone lines than ever before, and crucially, they could make calls from within the privacy of their own homes. Call girls even placed carefully veiled adverts in the windows of convenience shops and in newspapers letting potential clients know

how they might be reached. In September nineteen thirty five, twenty nine year old Doris met retired businessmen on Ri Jouanne at a restaurant on the West ends Oxford Street. Lovely to meet you, Pleasures all mine. Henri had been married and divorced once before. The introduction was made by a mutual friend. It was love at first sight on both sides, also went the story. In reality, Henri had been one of Doris's clients, visiting her rooms at two

forty Edgeware Road. Henri was over thirty years older than Doris. He'd been born in Paris, but had grown up in Britain, and his sister and parents lived in London too. Even so, he didn't hold British citizenship until nineteen oh seven, when at the age of twenty six, he was naturalized. I Henrial fra Juanna to swear that I will be faithful and bear true allegiance to His Majesty the King Edward,

his heirs and successors. Historian doctor Ginger Frost says the decision to pledge their loyalty to the crown and become legally British might have been a response to a new law. The British passed an act in nineteen o five called the Aliens Act, which forced those who were not British citizens to register and you had to check in if you changed your address or anything like that, and if you committed a crime or gott committing a crime as an alien, you could be deported. They were so determined

to get rid of anybody was problematic. They would even deport paupers. So if you landed on the workhouse and you were an alien, they would consider deporting you. It seemed unlikely that Henri would end up in the workhouse.

He'd enjoyed a career as a successful businessman and lived in the sumptuous districts of Kensington and Mayfair, but becoming British would have made life simpler for him, and a few years later, in nineteen thirteen, Henri had a brush with the law that might have made him feel relieved to now be a citizen. The motor cars zoomed along the country lane. A panic cyclist, who had never seen or heard such a vehicle in his life, feared he would be crushed, and he drove into the hedge at

the roadside. Police Constable Russell watched as the car hurtled into the distance. He noted that the automobile was going too fast for anyone to stop it. It was proceeding at a furious rate of perhaps thirty miles an hour. The frightened cyclist picked himself out of the thicket and dusted himself down. Constable Russell went to talk to him. All rise the men inside the vehicle were tracked down

and summoned to the local police court. Alfred Sutherland chauffeur for driving a motor car at a dangerous speed, Alri Jouanne for a similar offense and aiding and abetting Sutherland. But the prosecution had a problem. It couldn't be sure who had been at the wheel. Henri and his chauffeur said they'd been taking it in turns to drive. If Sutherland could not be convicted, then Henri could not be

guilty of aiding and abetting him. Eventually, the bench levied a fine of five pounds on the defendants and Henri was free to go on his way. His display of hutspur had won out. That Henri owned a car in the very early days of private automobiles, suggests that he was an adventurous man of some means. Indeed, he had an eclectic portfolio of enterprises and was in business with his sister law at a luxury dress shop in Mayfair, said to be patronized by the leading lights of English society.

Monsieur and Mademoiselle Renee will be present each afternoon to advise clients on the latest phases of Parley London styles. Henri went on to own the Grand Hotel at Concarneaux on the coast of Brittany, France, and after he sold this business he was able to retire and live off his investments. When he fell in love with Doris in the autumn of nineteen thirty five. He'd been a gentleman

of leisure for some years. Though Henrie was content to buy sex from Doris, such women were not to be considered marriage material, and so when he asked her to be his wife, additional terms were laid on top of the standard marriage contract. When I married my wife, it was agreed that she should cease her mode of life and regain her respectability. Doris enjoyed her work, so she must have felt she had something to gain by submitting to this. She seems to have been drawn to the

comfort and security of Henri's lifestyle. Perhaps too, she felt that she might be able to circumvent their agreement and have things her way. Within a couple of months of meeting, they'd wed by license at Paddington Register Office. On their marriage certificate, fifty nine year old Rie made himself forty five. Doris subtracted two years from her own age and also invented a father, one who was squarely a respectable professional man,

John Robson, she claimed was a medical practitioner. A proud advert placed in the Hartleypool Northern Daily Mail announced to those back home that little Doris Robson, the daughter of an unwed mother, was now missus Joanne, as if to underline the dangers of the profession she was leaving. On the day that Doris married on Rie, a woman called Josephine Martin, thought to be Russian born but known as French Fiefi, was found strangled in the Soho flat where

she worked, a silk stocking tied about her neck. The police, who'd arrested French Fife many times on prostitution charges, thought that a client was likely responsible but her murder remained unsolved. If Henri had read any of the many columnches of newsprint devoted to the killing, he no doubt reassured himself that the life he was providing for his new bride would surely keep her safe from such a grim fate. Bad women. The blackout Ripper will be back after this

short break. Henri and Dorris lived at fourteen back Her Street, part of an affluent estate of squares and crescents at the edge of Hyde Park. Henri gave his wife sentimental gifts, not necessarily luxury items, but objects with a story, like the distinctive white metal wristwatch he'd purchased years ago from a jeweler in France. The face had no hands and showed only the hours and the minutes. It was a source of mirth for the couple. I could not tell

the time very well with it. Henri believed that Doris was keeping her word and had left the sex trade. My wife behaved herself and I had no reason to think she was consorting with other men. But curiously, Doris's friend Peggy said that they continued to rent workspace together and that Olga kept in touch with her regular clients. A particular friend of hers was an elderly man who

lived at Kensington. Whenever she moved, she always told him was Doris, continuing to work, but keeping a secret from Henri. The couples sometimes decamped to hotels on Britain's south coast, so if Doris had occasionally stayed behind in London, she might to have had the odd opportunity here and there to see men. In nineteen thirty eight, Henrie's mother passed away and he inherited money from her estate. He seemingly

could not resist returning to his old entrepreneurial ways. Henrie and Doris purchased a cafe called Anne Wynn in the charming seaside town of Eastbourne, but the venture was ill fated. By October it had failed, and the cafe's fixtures and fittings, mahogany tables and chairs, the cash till, the cutting edge electric mixer, a Fridgidare ice cream maker, and even its extensive stocks of jams, syrups, flavorings and chocolate were sold

at option. Back in nineteen twelve, an employee of Henri's dress shop had been charged with altering the accounts an attempt to earn a quick buck by swindling the business. The collapse of Anne Wynn likewise rank alarm bells for Henri, who took both his landlord and the former owners of the cafe, a Mister and Missus Sedgwick, to court. They had conspired to sell him a white elephant, a ruined business that was not worth the money he paid for it,

said a local paper. It turned out that the Sedgwicks were in serious financial difficulty. They had debts all over Eastbourne, and they defaulted on their rental payments too. They told Henri that the cafe turned a reasonable profit, and now he believed that these projections were false and could only have been made dishonestly to induce him to buy the business or Fraud is one of the big growth areas

of the twentieth century. Doctor Mark rude House is a historian at the University of York and an expert in a legal markets, crime, and criminal justice. In the mid twentieth century, as the economy becomes more complex, fraud becomes something that's easier to do and pull off. A county standards are relatively low. In this particular case. You don't know whether that business was already being used for a fraud,

and that's why the turnover may have been misstated. Mark says that frauds are particular boom in the nineteen thirties. People struggling to cope with the consequences of the Great Depression cut corners to keep their businesses afloat, and they orchestrated more cynical and elaborate schemes too. The most popular types of fraud in the nineteen thirties are long firm and short firm fraud. They're essentially a type of theft.

You place orders for goods with suppliers, and in the short firm fraud, you place the order, you flog the goods, but you never pay for the goods that you ordered, and then you disappear. A long firm fraud does the

same thing, but builds up to a bigger payday. So what you do is you create a business, you run it for several months in which you buy stuff, you sell it, you pay your suppliers, and you build up from credit worthiness, and then you hit them several months in for a huge order which you then never pay for. And this could be a case where someone has used a business for a long firm or a short firm fraud and then seen another opportunity to make money from

it by selling it on to an unsuspecting customer. The Sedgwicks argued that Henri had never asked to see the cafe's accounts, which were now conveniently missing, and that moreover, he was at fault for changing the character of Anne Wynn. Once a traditional tea room, the cafe now had a rowdy continental ambiance, with gaudy ornaments in the window and loud carpets. Were still henreooked his customers and was a

perfect nuisance the whole time, according to Beatrice Sedgwick. In the end, however, the jury sided with Henri and found the defense's guilty of fraud. They considered that he was entitled to recover the money that he paid out for the business, but whether Henri actually received any compensation is not known. At the time of the court case, he said that he'd lost all his capital in the venture

and was now practically penniless. Henri and Dorris stayed living in Eastbourne a little while longer, and then in September nineteen thirty nine, war arrived. Henri's investments in France collapsed and he had to return to work in the capital. It appears that the cafe's failure, the fraud case, and the loss of Henria's annuity had taken a toll on the relationship. This was not the life that Doris had envisaged, and she complained that Henri was starting to get on

her nerves as the blitz began. Peggy Hemmings thought that Doris was especially afraid of the bombs, after all, she'd known the trauma of coming under enemy shelling as a child in Hartlepool, and so in the autumn of nineteen forty the couple went to live with Doris's mother and her aunt, now retired and residing in the genteel spa town of Harrogate, the pain By spring nineteen forty one, Henrie, in need of money, took a position as a manager

at Odnino's Regent Street, the hotel restaurant where Doris had once solicited and humblingly the type of venue that he had once frequented as a guest too. On recent Doris an allowance in hopes that she would stay behind in Harrigate. He meanwhile was living where he worked, but his wife was unhappy with the arrangement and miss London. Three weeks later, she pitched up in the city again. She told me she intended to stay in London and had already booked

a room in Sussex Gardens. Henrie was not impressed. Sussex Gardens was close to their former residence on Batur Street, but had also adjoined notorious Hyde Park, Cede Paddington and her Edgeware Road haunts. Doris had friends here, but more importantly, would be well positioned for selling sex. Many of her old clients had moved out to the suburbs, but the nearby barracks were full of soldiers looking for a good time. I objected to this, and there was great friction between us.

I visited her at this room on several occasions, and by the general atmosphere of the house, I came to the conclusion that my wife was drifting back to her old life. Doris denied the charge, but she told local dressmaker Beatrice Lange a different story. The women met and grew close after Doris returned to London, and they drink tea together at Beer's lodgings on the Edgeware Road. Doris confided to her new friend that she was eyeing a

replacement for Henri. The captain, who was a regular client of hers, wanted to take her off the streets, and then one day, said Beatrice, Doris simply vanished. A desperate Henri had obtained a new position at a hotel in a market town south of London, and he'd taken Doris with him. The next time Beatrice saw her friend would be on a cold February night in nineteen forty two. As it would turn out, Doris's final night Bad Women,

the Blackout Ripper will return shortly. Nineteen forty one was nearing its end and Doris and Henri's relationship was in crisis. Sixty five year old Henri's health had broken down, and he said that they no longer slept together. He continued to be suspicious that Doris had drifted back to ignominy I begged of her not to return to her old life. The Joannes now went to work at the Queen's Hotel

in Farnborough as joint manager and Managerress. Doris doesn't appear to have had any professional experience in the industry, but Henri's vouching for her seems to have secured her the position. Many hotels were completely transformed during the Second World War, becoming barracks, headquarters, hospitals, or even rest in recuperation resorts for war weary servicemen. Those that remained in private hands

were in demand. Because eating out was exempt from the restrictions of rationing, luxury hotels served lavish meals of pre war standards. The rich flocked to these establishments, determined to dine in the style to which they were accustomed. Some even made such hotels their homes for the duration of the war. The Queen's Hotel in Farnborough was a little

more staid and character but it too saw change. Its dining room was filled almost exclusively with service personnel who lunched on piping hot cream of cauliflower soup served from silver tureens, followed by spaghetti bolonnaise, a boiled bacon on a Boston and as a choice of hot big pudding wat cheese. After Henri and Doris earned decent salaries plus a bonus, and they were provided with accommodation too, But

this wasn't where Doris wanted to be. By now thirty five years old, she wasn't prepared to waste her time nor suffer fools, and she clashed with the customers, so much so that within a few months the couple had resigned, and so the Choannes were on the move again and back to London. Henrie was appointed manager of the elegant Royal Court Hotel in Kensington. They returned to tree lined Sussex Gardens and this time rented a ground floor apartment, one that must and on Rie's eyes, have been more

respectable than the dingy room Doris had previously leased. They moved in on January twenty sixth, nineteen forty two. Their new flat was modest in size, but well furnished, with parquet flooring and central heating. The bedroom was simple, pink blankets on twin beds, a plaid rug on the floor, and a dressing table where Doris sat and brushed her hair with her green comb missing some teeth, or wrote

her correspondence. Her favorite fountain pen was inscribed with the initials d J. Although the apartment was rented in Henri's name, he did not sleep there. Instead, he had a bed at work, but he would return to Sussex Gardens each evening to dine with his wife. They quickly settled into a routine. Henrie would arrive at around seven p m. How was your day, dear, and they would eat this supper and spend a couple of hours together, and then around nine thirty p m. He would head back to

the hotel. And so it was on the evening of Thursday, February twelfth, nineteen forty two, Doris had prepared some vegetable soup, which they ate in their dining room. When it was time for Henrie to leave again, she expressed a desire to get some fresh air, so she piled the dirty dishes in the sink and accompanied him round the corner to Paddington Tube Station, where they said that good byes and he hopped on the train to work. According to

Henrie hedged her to hurry home. Doris promised she would, but she had other ideas. She turned and headed towards the Edgeware Road. A striking figure in a dark cloth and squirrel fur coat, black turban hat and heavy kid gloves. She might have hoped to pick up a client, but instead she cross paths with her dear friend Beatrice Lange. Apparently, Doris had just seen a policeman talking to a young girl.

For She warned Beatrice that the officer would likely be highly suspicious of a woman wandering these streets alone at night. Don't go up there, you might get in trouble, she said, and so the pair continued on together, stopping at the Cumberland Hotel for a quick drink. I'll have another whiskey of a Dasher soda please bottom. As they drank, Doris

hinted at the state of her marriage. She referred to Henrie not as her husband an equal, but as an old anne who kept her and who increasingly grated on her too. The women did not linger at the Cumberland, and soon Doris was headed back towards her home and no stranger. On the way, she bumped into two local women who also solicited in the area, and they chatted

for a while, remarking on the terrible cold. Ruby Grant asked if Doris was going to call it at night, and she remembered Doris's parting words to her, I'm going to try and get off before I get home. It was around ten thirty pm, a few people were about and the streets were quiet. Ruby watched Doris as she headed in the direction of Sussex gardens and disappeared into the darkness. When on Ri Jouane arrived home from work the following evening, he found the flat empty and oddly still.

The morning's milk delivery was still on the front doorstep. Inside, it was dark dos He called into the gloom, no reply. Clicking on the lamp in the dining room, he felt a chill of alarm. Light spilled over the table, illuminating a milk jug and some biscuits, the remnants of the previous evening's meal, just as they had left them. Apprehensive, On removed along the passage to the bedroom. The door was locked and the key was missing. Doris, are you

in there? Doris, are you in there? All was quiet and still. In the kitchen, too, were the ghostly traces of a shared life halted in its tracks. Two suit bowls, two spoons, two cups, all piled up, all unwashed. Something was terribly wrong. Henri rang for his neighbor, missus Kirby. The housekeeper opened the door to a man who, ordinarily

dignified and upright, was now fearful and agitated. Wife. The housekeeper hadn't seen her all day, and she'd also noticed that the shutters in the front room had remained closed together. They tried different keys to the bedroom door, but to no avail. Eventually, missus Kirby telephoned the police. Henri stood on the doorstep, a forlorn figure, awaiting their arrival. When the officers broke down, the door to the bedroom blocked on Re from entering after them. Doris lay diagonally across

the bed, the sheets around her stained with blood. She'd been stabbed and slashed and strangled, and knotted into a ligature around her neck was a silk stocking. Unrie was heartbroken. In his pain, maybe even in guilt, he eulogized their union. The papers that rolled up the presses spoke not of Doris's dissatisfaction, but instead of an ideal marriage, we were perfectly happy and have never had a disagreement, Unri told them.

In the Sussex Gardens flat detectives hunted for fingerprints and other clues to build a case against their prime suspect,

leading aircraftman Gordon Cummings. Officers took an inventory. Money and personal effects like that white metal wristwatch, the one that was hard to read, were missing from the Joanna's home, A light dust had settled on Doris's dressing table in that coating of gray, with silhouette outlines where once had been her green cone with its missing teeth, and her writing set at an Aria Barracks not so very far away,

a blue wool tunic was waiting to be found. In one of its pockets was an elegant and well loved fountain pen bearing the initials d J Bad Women. The Black Out Ripper is hosted by me Hallie rubin Hold and me Alice Fines. It was written and produced by Alice Fines and Ryan Dilley, with additional support from Courtney Guerino and author Gomberts. Kate Heay of Oakwood Family Trees aided us with genealogical research. Pascal Wise Sound designed and

mixed the show and composed all the original music. The show was recorded at Woodoor Studios by David Smith and Tom Berry. You also heard the voice salents of Ben Crow, David Glover, Melanie Gutridge, Stella Harford, Jemma Saunders, and Rufus Wright. Much of the music You Had was performed by Edgarchan, Ross Hughes, Christian Miller and Marcus Penrose. They were recorded by Nick Taylor at Porcupine Studios. Pushkin's Ben Tolliday mixed the tracks and you heard additional piano playing by the

great Berry Wise Hi Berry. The show also wouldn't have been possible without the work of Jacob Weisberg, Heather Faine, Carlie Migliori, Maggie Taylor, Nicole Morano, Eric Sandler, and Daniella Lukhan. We'd also like to thank Michael Buchanan Dunn of the Murder Mile podcast, Lizzie McCarroll, Katherine Walker at the Royal Farm Sceutical Society, and the Earbe Historical Society. Bad Women

is a production of Pushkin Industries. Please rate and review the show and spread the word about what we do, and thanks for listening.