S02 Episode 1: Whispers in the Trees pt.1

focal point of nassa's first ever mission to Pluto. With the spacecraft being hurled towards its target at over thirty six thousand miles per hour, it will be another ten years before it begins to uncover the secrets lying in wait at the outer regions of our solar system back home, a week after the launch, in a small bedsit in London, a far more earthly discovery is about to be made.

On the afternoon of Wednesday, January the twenty sixth, a team of housing officials are making their way towards a flat in wood Green, North London. The apartment is part of a complex known locally as Sky City, which forms an estate perched on top of a vast shopping mall. When the team arrive at the front door, noises from the TV can be heard emanating from inside the flat,

an indication perhaps that the occupier is home. The officer's subsequent knocks, however, go unanswered, and after a few minutes they decide to break down the door. Stepping into the gloom of the flat beyond, the officers are first struck by a clawing smell that hangs thickly in the air. Pushing the front door wider reveals a stack of unopened mail on the floor or the while the voices from the TV continue uninterrupted. A moment later, the officers step

into the living room and make a gruesome discovery. Lying there on the sofa, illuminated by the incessant flickering of the TV screen, of the skeletal remains of the tenant. A pile of Christmas presents lie unopened on the floor. The tenant was thirty eight year old Joyce Carol Vincent, and her body had lain undiscovered and unreported for over two years. Filmmaker Carol Morley was so moved by this revelation that she began an investigation to uncover who this

tragically forgotten woman had been. Morley's beautiful and hypnotic film Dreams of a Life, released in two thousand and eleven, pieces together the story of Joyce's life in an attempt to rescue her existence from obscurity. It is surely a fate that haunts us all the sadness of a life forgotten, an affirmation of a degree of meaninglessness, to profound, to comprehend.

We see it in the propensity for social media to so often operate not as a tool with which to explore each other, but rather a means with which to validate ourselves, our way of saying not only that this is who we are, but in the way of old school room graffiti. Perhaps it is more fundamentally a way of merely saying that we were here, that we exist.

You're listening to Unexplained and I'm Richard McClean smith. The British Industrial Revolution was a time of extraordinary physical and philosophical upheaval, a time, as the inimitable Humphrey Jennings once observed, that was borne from a sudden synchronicity of vision and

the means of production. But its fuel was, of course the land, the raw materials that men and women ripped from the ground and smelt it in the factories throughout the country, colossal cauldrons of industry sprouted up around the places where such fuel was most in abundance. One such center, perhaps the most intense of the mall, was the Black Country, a region in the west Midlands of England whose very

name proudly bears the scars of its past. As the Scottish philosopher Thomas Carlyle once wrote of the place at the time, a dense cloud of pestilential smoke hangs over it forever, blackening even the grain that grows upon it, And at night the whole region burns like a volcano, spitting fire from a thousand tubes of brick. At the height of the Revolution, the region was a city of chimney stacks, of iron foundries and steel mills, but its

blood was coal. In fact, traditionalists consider the real Black Country to only include the region just west of Birmingham, where the thirty foot coal seam comes to the surface, a product of once living trees compressed and buried for millions of years, returning to the surface like an irrepressible secret. There are some who say the trees can talk, and

if they could, what secrets might they hold. On the edge of the Black Country, there is an area of forest just outside of Birmingham that today is struck through by the busy A four five six road, But in years gone by it was a far more wild and darkly place. It is thought by some to be imbued with the sort of magic, a place where witches may have gathered and perhaps still do. Or perhaps it is merely a place that echoes with the footsteps of ancient

people who once walked and eventually settled on the land. Indeed, it is possible that settlers may have frequented the area as far back as Neolithic times. Certainly, the nearby Witchbury Ring Fort is evidence of a local community having existed here as far back as the second or first century BC. By nineteen forty three, although signs of the fort can still be found, they have faded well into the land.

Half the world is in the grip of war, and for anyone who has found themselves mercilessly drawn into the horrors abroad, home is a distant and aching memory. For those left behind, home is a familiar but forever changed landscape, with or without the bombs. For Birmingham and the immediate surrounds, those bombs would come thick and fast, being as it was the second most populous city in the UK and

a major center of industry. It is hard to imagine that in the midst of such turmoil, something hidden, a secret closer to home might somehow penetrate the sound of those bombs. But in April of nineteen forty three it did. What happened exactly one evening, under the cover of darkness, while explosives reigned down only a few miles away, has never been fully accounted for. It is a mystery that

remains to this day unexplained. Barely ten miles to the west of Birmingham, in the shadow of the Glent Hills lies the village of Hagley. On a warm spring evening in the magic hour, as dusk begins to fall, four young boys are roaming through the Hagley Woods. The date is Sunday, April eighteenth, and the youngsters are Robert Hart, Thomas Willits, Bob Farmer and Fred Payne. With rationing starting to bite, the boys, although they wouldn't tell you, are

searching for food, birds, eggs, or rabbits. If they're lucky. As their fathers fight in foreign fields to protect the green and pleasant lands of home, the boys might be forgiven for thinking such wide open country to be as much theirs as any other Englishman, but such as the way of things. The land has been privately owned by the Littleton family since fifteen fifty six, and the boys

are trespassing. The area is known as Hagley Park, taking its name from Eagley Hall, which in nineteen forty three is home to Charles John Littleton, the tenth Viscount Cobham. The boys are about to make their way back home when something catches their eye. A tree, unlike any of the others around. The trunk appears strangely squat, having at some point been heavily coppiced. As a result, a shocking mesh of spiny branches has grown out at the top

of it, forming the perfect sanctuary for nesting animals. Fifteen year old Bob Farmer volunteers to take a closer look and swiftly scrambles up through the branches. Having soon reached the top, he looks down into the gaping hollow of the tree. In the fading light, he can just make out the familiar dusty white hue of a bird's egg. Reaching down. He stretches his arm deep into the trunk,

but the egg remains tantalizingly out of reach. With the aid of a stick, he manages to move it, but it's bigger than he expected and seems to be wedged inside. With great care, Bob manages to dislodge the egg, but as it starts to move free, something dawns on him. Not only would this be the largest egg he had ever seen, but that familiar dusty white hue is a little darker and more yellow than it had at first appeared.

It looks more like bone. When finally he lifts it from the hollow, it is clear that it is not an egg at all. It is, in fact a skull, a human skull. Bob holds it aloft as the other boys look on with a mix of fear and wonder. A quick discussion ensues. Is it really what they think it is? How old is it? Should they tell someone? Fred is keen to show it to his older brother Donald, but in the end they decide to keep it between them, better that than risk punishment for poaching on private land.

With night fast approaching, one of the boys notices some material protruding from the tree. Farmer pushes it into the skull, and taking the stick climbs back up the trunk and carefully lowers the mistaken treasure back into the hollow, and there it might possibly have remained if it wasn't for the fact that, unsurprisingly, something of the event had followed

the boy's home. The youngest, Tommy Willits, was finding it particularly difficult to erase the ghoulish image from his mind, an image that had found its way into his dreams. The next morning, unable to ignore it any longer, Tommy told his parents, who in turn wasted little time in telling the police. Are you always taking care of your family? Do you often take care of others and not yourself? Now it's time to take care of yourself, to make

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dispatched to investigate. En route to the forest, Lambourne calls in on Robert Hart, the oldest of the boys, to help lead him to the strange and haunting tree. A short time later, having pointed out the location, the young heart watches on as Lambourne, along with Sergeants Richard Skerrat and Jack Wheeler, and Constable Jack Pound take it in

turns to peer into the cavernous trunk. The boys had indeed found a human skull, but what they didn't know was that the peculiar tree was also hiding the rest of the body. One of the men remarks that the tree is an old and rotted witch hazel, also known as witch elm, a tree long associated with the underworld, the name which derives from the Old English word meaning pliant and durable. This feature of which elm wood, is one of the reasons it was traditionally used to build coffins.

The policeman request a forensic team to come and inspect the body, but they are unable to attend until the following morning. As a result, a volunteer is sought to guard the skeleton through the night. The task falls to Squadron Leader William Douglas Osborne, a former Special Constable home

on leave for a few days. That night, Monday April the nineteenth, Osborne kept watch over the remains of the unknown, encased like a missive from the underworld itself inside the natural coffin of the old which elm The following morning, on Tuesday April the twentieth, Douglas Osborne was relieved of his duty by Superintendent Sydney Night, Deputy Inspector Thomas Williams

and Constable Jack Pound. Later that evening, at approximately six forty the police were joined by Professor James Webster, head of the newly established Home Office Forensic Science Laboratory at

nearby Birmingham University. Webster was a foreboding figure described by writer John Mervyn Pew in his book Execution as a large balding Scot with a glass eye and a monocle to enhance the vision of the other He would often arrive on the scene scruffly dressed in baggy trousers and an old brown Harris tweed jacket, with his tie hanging loose halfway around his neck. With the ladder safely secured by the tree, the imposing Webster clambered up to take

a look inside. It was clear immediately the greater access would be needed. An axe was called for and handed over to Constable Pound. As the other men stood back and watched, Pounds swung the axe and cut into the bowl of the tree. One blow was followed by another until a clear break had been made large enough to pull the skeleton out. With great care, The men worked together to free the bones before laying them out gently

on the forest floor. On the ground, the skeleton appears at first to be fairly intact, but Webster is quick to notice a number of missing fragments. After a quick search of the immediate vicinity, Webster stumbles upon the slightly chewed tibia of the left leg, one small midnight blue shoe with a crept sole is also pulled from the splintered trunk. With the pieces now laid out from the size and frame, as well as the few bits of material that remained, Webster could see instantly that the boys

had stumbled upon the skeleton of a young woman. Later that evening, the first of the bones are delivered to the West Midlands Forensic Science Laboratory to be formally assessed by Webster and his assistant, doctor John lund Over the course of the next few days. The various sections are deafly laid out by the two pathologists. Any external fabric is delicately removed, and slowly a body begins to take shape.

Professor Webster proceeds while doctor Lunde records its findings. He begins at the skull, noting that it is undoubtedly that of a female and there are no obvious marks of a fatal injury. On the side of the skull, it's a small clump of mousey brown hair. An examination of the jaw reveals a clean and healthy set of teeth, with one peculiarity, a noticeable irregularity of the front two

incisors which overlap slightly. A piece of material part of a khrke or mustard colored dress that the deceased would have worn is found lodged into the cavity of the mouth, suggesting a possible cause of death, perhaps placed in the victim's mouth to hasten asphyxiation. Moving down the skeleton, Professor Webster notes no signs of disease or ill health, with the fine condition of both the hyoid bone and the sternum suggesting that the victim was a woman below the

age of forty. The pelvis reaffirms the victim as being indisputably female, with a particular feature in two of the hip bones suggesting a childbirth at some point, though this is deemed inconclusive. All in all, Webster finds little unusual, with the major exception of one thing. The entirety of her right hand was missing. Professor Webster concludes the victim to have been female, of approximately thirty five years of age, of lower than average height, placing her at roughly five

feet tall. The time of death is given as approximately eighteen months previously, due to the state of decomposition and the age of the tree roots which had weaved their way through what remained of the clothes. Since the victim had to have been placed in the hollow before rigor mortis. If, as Webster suspected, she had been murdered, it is likely that she would have been placed in the tree while

she was still warm, possibly even alive. As such, she would likely have been murdered nearby, or at least driven to the spot in a significant hurry. An assessment of the rotted fragments of clothing revealed the remains of a mustard colored cloth skirt, as well as a dark blue and yellow striped knitted cartigan. An inexpensive wedding ring is also found, which may have been worn for as long as four years. Back in the forest, members of the Home Guard, with the assistance of a local scout group,

continue to comb the area. A second shoe is found not far from the tree, as well as a green glass bottle. A short time later, one of the volunteers notices something protruding from the soil. As he digs into the earth, he recoils in horror as there, buried just

below the surface is the missing right hand. Taking Webster's bone and material analysis, the Worcestershire Constabulary put together a poster campaign in the hope of encouraging any witnesses to come forward, but as the days turn to weeks and then to months, despite evidence that the victim had possibly been married at the time of death and may also

have borne a child, remarkably nobody comes forward. Then an identity card is found in the woods, but when the police visit the owner's address, they are somewhat disappointed to find her alive and well, if a little bemused as to how her ID card was found so close to a possible murder scene. All in awe. The police trawl threw over three thousand open reports of missing women, but are unable to find a significant match. The irregularity of the teeth offered a glimmer of hope, but a subsequent

check of all UKA dental records again yields nothing. The green glass bottle is also analyzed but reveals little of interest, but the police enjoys some luck when the crept sold shoes are traced to one specific manufacturer by the name of Silsby's, located in nearby Northampton. Almost six thousand pairs of the shoes have been made, but remarkably all of the owners are traced, except for those of six pairs that are eventually tracked to a market stall in nearby Dudley,

where the trail goes cold. A similar process is attempted with the clothes, but curiously, all of the labels have been cut or removed entirely, a strange state of affairs, perhaps, but also one that was in keeping with the notion that the shoes might have been market bought, since stall owners would often remove the labels of the clothes they sold.

In spite of the distraction and devastation of war, the mystery of the skeleton found in Hagley Wood, now being referred to in the press as the tree murder riddle, had continued to hold a firm grip on the local community, but as the months wore on, the tale of yet one more wartime death had begun to fizzle from the public consciousness. After six months, the police had drawn a complete blank, with no leads and not even as much as a name for the tragic forgotten victim. But all

that was about to change. It was on one morning sometime towards Christmas of nineteen forty three, that the rising sun revealed a cryptic message hastily scrawled across a wall in the nearby village of Old Hill. Written in chalk in three inch high capital letters were the words who put Lubella down the witch Elm. Not long after, another message appeared scrawled on a wall in Birmingham, declaring Hagley

Wood Bella. Again and again, The messages continued to appear, evolving each time, until eventually settling on what has perhaps become the most well known phrase, who put Bella in the witch Elm? But who had authored these teasing questions? Do they really know who the dead woman was or what may have happened to her? And why are they not talking to the police? As if from nowhere it would seem the authorities now had a name to work with,

but the mystery was only just beginning. You can find out more in Part two, which will be released in a fortnight's time. All elements of Unexplained are produced by me Richard McClain smith. Please subscribe and rate the show on iTunes. Feel free to get in touch with any thoughts or ideas regarding the stories you've heard on the show. Perhaps you have an explanation of your own you'd like to share. You can reach us online at Unexplained podcast

dot com or on Twitter at Unexplained pod Now. It's time to take care of yourself. To make time for you. Tell a doc gives you access to a licensed therapist to help you get back to feeling your best. Speak to a licensed therapist by phone or video anytime between seven am to nine pm local time, seven and days a week. Teledoc Therapy is available through most insurance or employers. Download the app, or visit teledoc dot com Forward slash

Unexplained Podcast today to get started. That's teladoc dot com slash Unexplained Podcast