Lore - Lore 255: Off the Rails

Episode Date: June 3, 2024

Every narrative trope has an origin story. This murder mystery staple, however, might just be the most suspenseful of them all. Narrated and produced by Aaron Mahnke, with writing by GennaRose Nethercott, research by Sam Alberty, and music by Chad Lawson. ————————— Lore Resources:  Episode Music: lorepodcast.com/music  Episode Sources: lorepodcast.com/sources  All the shows from Grim & Mild: www.grimandmild.com Sponsors: Mint Mobile: For a limited time, wireless plans from Mint Mobile are $15 a month when you purchase a 3-month plan with UNLIMITED talk, text and data at MintMobile.com/lore. Stamps: Never go to the Post Office again. Get a 4-week trial, free postage, and a digital scale at Stamps.com/LORE. BetterHelp: Lore is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at BetterHelp.com/LORE, and get on your way to being your best self. To report a concern regarding a radio-style, non-Aaron ad in this episode, reach out to [e-mail] with the name of the company or organization so we can look into it. ————————— To advertise on our podcast, please reach out to [e-mail], or visit our listing here. ————————— ©2024 Aaron Mahnke. All rights reserved.

It's a tale as old as time. A girl falls in love with a monster. In this story, there is, of course, a beauty, aka Belle. But not the Belle of Disney fame. No, I'm referring to Belle Elmore, the stage name of music hall singer Cora Henrietta Crippen. As for her beast, well, that would be her husband, Holly Crippen. But these two, I'm afraid to say, were not destined for a fairy tale ending. You see, Holly Crippen, better known as Dr. Crippen, murdered Cora.

It was January of 1910 when she first disappeared. Then Dr. Crippen's mistress, Ethel, was seen wearing the missing woman's jewelry, and the final nail in the literal coffin, the police found a torso in the Crippen's basement. Suffice to say, authorities were on to Dr. Crippen, but by then he and Ethel had fled, hopping aboard a steamship headed to Canada. Naturally, they would have to travel in disguise, so Ethel dressed as a boy, the two pretending to be father and son, which, sure, might have been convincing if not for the fact that they couldn't keep their hands off each other. The ship's captain took notice, sending a message via telegraph to the police. And that

was that. Crippen was caught, convicted, and executed. And look, it might sound like your standard old murder case, but it turns out Crippen was caught, convicted, and executed. And look, it might sound like your standard old murder case, but it turns out Krippen's capture was unlike anything the world had seen before. You see, that telegraph call had made history. Why? With a few simple radio waves, Krippen became the first criminal ever captured thanks to wireless communication. The case went on to inspire numerous adaptations,

including one by the mistress of murder herself, Agatha Christie. That's right, the Crippen story allegedly formed in part the basis for her novel, Mrs. McGinty's Dead. But this wouldn't be the only time new technology intersected with crime to change the shape of murder mysteries forever. Oh no, far from it. I'm Aaron Manke, and this is Lore. You might assume the British Railway started with the invention of, well, the train, but it actually stretches back to the 16th century in the form of horse-drawn wagonways, kind

of a predecessor to the railroad. Of course, as time chugged along, so did transportation, and eventually horses were replaced by steam-powered engines. Now, sure, today we associate train travel with period dramas and old-timey adventure tales, train hoppers and masked robbers and, yes, Agatha Christie murder mysteries. But don't forget, there was a time when the locomotive was the hottest, most cutting-edge British technology, and like any technology, it caused a heck of a stir. Just imagine, suddenly trips that would have taken hours by horse-drawn coach could be condensed into minutes.

Howling steam-powered trains carried exotic goods across England and shipments arriving from all over the world. News and information traveled faster than ever before. Industry, motion, and culture itself were being irrevocably changed right in front of people's eyes. It didn't take long before trains had become the single most indispensable element of British daily life. But like any new shiny technology, not everyone was all aboard, so to speak. In short, people didn't trust the thing. It's hard to blame them, too. Here folks were, being asked to cram into a wood and metal box where they would be seated among complete strangers

and hurtled on a track at speeds faster than the human body had ever moved before. The cars rattled and wobbled. The engine was erratic, and it was so loud that there were real fears of hearing loss. And on top of all of that, people even wondered whether not just the body, but the human soul was safe traveling at such high speeds. Throw in all those rural communities that were chewed up and spat out as 10,000 miles of track were laying, slicing through towns and farmland, and you had yourself a recipe for unease. But hey, at least there was one fear that passengers hadn't thought of yet.

That is, no one seemed too worried hadn't thought of yet. That is, no one seemed too worried about the idea of being attacked on a train by a fellow passenger. After all, they had enough to worry about already. Murder didn't even make the list. At least not until July of 1864, when all of that changed. Darkness had fallen hours before, as the train pulled into the Hackney station stop nestled in the London suburbs. It was 10.10 pm on July 9th of 1864. Two bank employees stepped onto the train and into first class carriage number 69. And what they found there? Well, it was something straight out of a penny dreadful.

The interior of the compartment, you see, was covered in blood. It was pooled on the blue tufted seat cushions. It was splattered across the window and smeared over the armrest. It spread, congealing on the floor. But that wasn't the strangest thing. Because you see there, illuminated in the haze of a single smoky gaslight, the men found nothing. That is a complete absence of a body. The bloody train car was completely empty. Oh, and railcars at the time, they were isolated into separate compartments, with doors opening to the platform but not to each other. So once sealed inside, passengers couldn't communicate with either the conductor or the

other passengers in different compartments. In other words, whatever had taken place that night in car 69 had gone down with no witnesses. The only clues as to who had once been there were a blood-smeared cane with an ivory handle, a black leather bag, and a crushed, low-crowned black hat. Eat your heart out, Sherlock Holmes. Meanwhile, half an hour later and a ways down the line, a train driver heading in the opposite

direction noticed something peculiar laying between the inbound and outbound track. That peculiar shape, it turns out, was a man. And this guy wasn't doing too hot. He was alive, but just barely bruised, bloodied, and unable to communicate. The man was brought to a nearby pub where his pockets were turned out in hopes of identifying him. Loose change, keys, a silver snuff box, a bundle of letters, and, strangely, a gold fastener for a pocket watch chain.

But both the chain and the watch itself were nowhere to be found. At first, people wondered whether his injuries were simply the result of a fall from the train. That sort of exit would do the result of a fall from the train. That sort of exit would do a number on a person, after all. But as a local constable performed a gentle search, it became evident that something else was at play. This man, you see, wasn't simply injured. His clothes were torn and rumpled, as if a struggle had taken place.

There was the missing watch, of course, but most alarming of all, the man's skull had been bashed in. At 11.45 pm the following day, the stranger passed away, and with that, a new terror had unleashed itself upon the British imagination, changing the world forever. For the very first time in history, a train had become the setting for murder. It didn't take long to identify the victim. His name was Thomas Briggs, a 69-year-old banker serving as the chief clerk at Roberts Curtis & Co. Bank in London. He'd spent years diligently climbing the corporate ladder, returning home each night to his wife in the London suburbs.

And now, well, he was dead. The newspapers went wild. After all, not only was this the first ever train murder, but it also happened to someone like Briggs, an upstanding citizen, a regular guy in a first-class cabin of the train, no less. One newspaper described it as, and I quote, "'one of the most atrocious crimes

that probably ever disgraced this country.'" Another wrote, "'It is impossible to imagine circumstances of greater apparent security than those which seem to surround Mr. Briggs. Traveling first class for a mere step of a journey on a line where stations occur every mile or so, if we can be murdered thus, we may be slain in our pew at church

or assassinated at our dinner table. In Kay Cahoon's book, Murder in a First Class Carriage, which by the way, I can't recommend highly enough, she writes about how it must have felt like the plot of a novel had spilled out into real life. All the rules of how people thought society worked had gone right out the window, and with it the public's idea of what belonged in fiction and what was possible in the world

around them. In short, people were seriously freaked out. If this could happen, heck, anything else could. Officials knew that they better solve this case and quickly. If not, well, there was nothing more dangerous than a frightened public. Naturally, London put their best guys on the job. First, senior investigator Walter Kersey and soon after, Detective Inspector Richard Tanner. These two guys, let's just say, they weren't exactly geniuses.

In all of their cases, they mostly relied on lucky breaks and tips from the public to make their arrests. But hey, you work with what you've got, right? The bare bones of what happened seem to be clear. Briggs was in the carriage when a would-be thief tried to take his watch. Briggs tried to fight back, which is when it's believed the assailant struck him in the head with a blunt object, cracking his skull. A struggle ensued, ending with Mr. Briggs being shoved from the train. Beyond that, the facts are a little stickier. Literally.

For example, the killer had left a perfect bloody handprint in the car. What luck, right? Except, well, this was the days before forensics, so they basically just wrinkled their noses and mopped it right up. I told you, these guys were no geniuses. All they really had for clues were a bag, a cane, and a crumpled black hat. Which to be fair, wasn't nothing. When Carazzee spoke to the Briggs family, showing them the three items, they verified

that the cane did in fact belong to Briggs. The bag too. But the beaver skin hat with the striped lining, no one in his family had ever seen it before. So, like the handprint, this hat must belong to the killer, making it clue number one. Meanwhile, posters went up all over London detailing the murder. Any tip that led to an arrest, they promised, would come with a £200 reward, which for a Victorian, was four to five times more than a working class man might earn in an entire year. Suffice to say, the letters poured in, hundreds and hundreds of them, and sure, most led to

dead ends, but not all. The key to unlocking the whole mystery arrived in the form of a note from a man. And listeners, I swear I am not making this up. His name was Mr. Death, spelled D-E-E-T-H. Do you see why the Victorians felt like they were living in a horror novel? Mr. Death, that is, John Death, happened to own a jewelry business and noticed something familiar while reading the morning paper. It was the description of a gold chain with its hook missing, that is, the watch chain missing from the late Mr. Briggs pocket.

You see, John Death had seen a chain rather like that on the morning of July 11th, just two days after the murder. A stranger had come into his shop looking to swap it out for something more modern and had exchanged it for a cheaper chain, along with the secondhand signet ring, featuring a head engraved in Cornelian stone. According to Deff, the guy was, to put it in modern terms, wicked shady. He was fidgety and kept avoiding the light and turning his face away as if trying not

to be fully seen. Yeah, not suspicious at all. And what do you know, John Death happened to still have that traded-in gold chain. When the authorities showed it to Briggs' family, they immediately identified it as his. Finally, a real lead. While police across London were busy chasing wild geese, uselessly shaking down various suspicious men in suspicious black coats, that lead was working its way through the press. And on Monday evening of July 16th,

it finally paid off. Because that's when a cabbie named Jonathan Matthews arrived at a London police station with a suspect's name on his lips and a little cardboard box in his hands. The suspect was a German man named Franz Müller. He was a friend of Matthews and had even been briefly engaged to a member of Matthews' family at one point. And over the past week, Matthews had started noticing some coincidences regarding Müller and the news of London's most famous case. For one, there was a rumor that the murderer would be in possession of a John Deff jewelry

box, a cheap gold chain, and a Cornelian ring with a face on it, after making the aforementioned trade on July 11th. Well, Franz Muller had actually given such a box to Matthews' daughter on that very same day, which Matthews now had in hand. Not only that, but Mueller had even showed the girl a gold chain and, yep, a ring with a Cornelian face on it. Then there was that crushed hat. Matthews had actually gifted his buddy Mueller a hat, just like the one the newspapers had described. Same hat maker and everything. When the police showed Matthews the hat found in the car, he was certain that was the exact

present he had given to Franz Muller. And lastly, Matthews provided the detectives with a photo of Muller, which they then in turn showed to Mr. Death. The jeweler confirmed it. That was indeed the man who had traded him Mr. Briggs' gold chain. And that was that. They had their suspect. Tanner and his men rushed to Franz Muller's address.

They laid in wait, and as the first spears of sunlight crept over the horizon, they made their move. Except they were too late. Muller, you see, was gone. He had set sail for New York, which sure seems pretty incriminating. According to his landlord, less than a week after the murder, Muller left London to sail for New York, which sure seems pretty incriminating. But to be fair, he'd been telling people about his upcoming trip for weeks, far before Briggs' death.

Muller was a tailor, you see, and traveling during the slow summers in search of work was just what tailors did. So maybe he wasn't running. Maybe the guy was just on holiday. And honestly, that wasn't the only reason to question Mueller's guilt. All the evidence was pretty circumstantial, for one. And then there was the fact that the multiple witnesses who came forward claimed to have seen not one but two men in the train car with Briggs just before his death, one of

whom was tall and thin and the other short and fat, like every pair of cartoon henchmen in TV history. Most notably, neither looked anything like Mr. Muller. But here's what you have to understand. This was a case with no room for doubt. The public was panicking. With each day that passed without an arrest, the people lost a little more faith in the police's ability to protect them, and less faith in trains themselves,

on which all of British industry relied. No, there wasn't time to hem and haw. The authorities needed a culprit, and Muller seemed as likely a candidate as any. By 6 p.m. on Tuesday, July 19, Detective Inspector Tanner had acquired an official arrest warrant. And this is the point in the story where we trade a train murder for a boat chase. Tanner, cohorts in tow, climbed aboard a ship leaving from Liverpool. Their plan? To chase Muller across the Atlantic.

The story really does have everything, doesn't it? Now Muller's ship had a good five day head start. And if he made it to the States first, he would basically be uncatchable. And I know what you're thinking. Why didn't they just contact the police in America and have them meet Mueller's ship when it arrived? Well, just like the bloody handprint situation, technology just wasn't that advanced yet. There really wasn't a way for English and American ports to reliably communicate with

each other, or with ships at sea for that matter. And so Tanner's only choice was to stretch his own sea legs and beat Muller to it, which, let's be honest, is a lot more fun anyway. So Muller was five days ahead. But his ride, a boat called the Victoria, was an old fashioned wooden ship. Meanwhile Tanner and company were riding high in a modern iron-hulled screw steamer with 400 horsepower engines. On August 24th, the Victoria pulled into the New York Harbor.

Franz Muller stepped off and little did he know, but all of New York had shown up to greet him. Thousands of jeering onlookers had gathered along the shorelines, eager to catch a glimpse of the mythic murderer they'd read about in the news. And who led the pack, but none other than Detective Inspector Tanner. Tanner, it seems, had beaten Muller to New York by a full three weeks.

Mueller was arrested, his luggage was searched, and there in his trunk, nestled among his meager belongings, was a shiny gold watch. A watch that just so happened to have the very same serial number as the one stolen from Mr. Briggs. Add to that an expensive silk hat that matched the kind Briggs used to wear, and Tanner had seen more than enough. The authorities marched Franz Muller to the New York police headquarters. Along the steps of the marshal's office, spectators and reporters pushed and prodded, all hungry to spot the infamous villain. A villain that the newspapers had built

up for weeks as a dark, sinister fiend, a menace to society, a deadly assassin. And yet, as Muller approached the station, the once noisy crowd fell quiet because there in front of them wasn't the villain of their nightmares. Instead, they only saw a small, drab, cowering human being. The same scene repeated itself when he was dragged back to Britain. Hundreds of hissing onlookers were shaken into silence at the sight of their monster, because the meek 23-year-old German immigrant wasn't a monster at all.

He was only a man. Finally, reality hit the British populace. As much as the sensationalized papers had made it feel like a crime novel, this wasn't it. It was real people's lives and real people's deaths. Mueller's trial began on October 24th of 1864, just a week before his 24th birthday. He pled not guilty, but that wouldn't matter.

After three long days of witness testimonies from ticket collectors, watchmakers, tailors, pawnbrokers, and more, the jury stepped out for a mere 15 minutes to deliberate. When they returned, they delivered their verdict. Franz Müller was guilty of murder, and he was sentenced to be hanged. On November 14th of 1864, at around 8 a.m., Müller was escorted out of Newgate Prison and led to the gallows.

More than 50,000 people gathered outside. The crowd was drunk and rowdy. People leaned from nearby windows, dressed to the nines as if attending a party. Carts selling pies and fried fish and ginger beer wended through the mass. The small man ascended the gallows steps. There on the platform, he had an urgent conversation with a German Lutheran minister. And then, before the eager crowd, the noose was placed around his neck, and the floor below him fell away.

There are certain storytelling tropes and motifs that are such an institution, it can be easy to forget that there must have been, at one point in history, a first, an original story that preceded all the rest. That's what the story of Mr. Briggs and Mr. Muller gives us, an origin that spiraled into an entire genre of mysterious, captivating train murders. Except that of course there was something different about this story than the endless tales that followed. This one was true. But the people of Britain forgot that for a moment. They forgot that Franz Muller wasn't some ne'er-do-well from an author's imagination. Which is why when

they saw him in real life, a slight mild-mannered seemingly peaceful young man, everyone was so shocked. The spell had been broken. And so when Mueller was found guilty, while it wasn't met with the same delight as you might expect, immediately questions began to arise as to whether or not he was actually guilty. The evidence was far from airtight, after all. Even the seemingly damning watch Mueller had claimed to buy off someone else

after the murder. The public, once thirsty for blood, hesitated. Could it be that this man was actually innocent? And there were social issues at play too. An upper-class man killed by a working class immigrant artisan. Could it be that poor, powerless Mueller was simply being used as a scapegoat? The authorities had thought that simply catching and punishing the killer would put the public at ease. They would make them trust the police again. But now, that wouldn't be enough. No, what they needed now was a confession.

To hear an admission of guilt from the killer's own lips, erasing any doubt. But Mueller refused to confess. He pled not guilty at the trial. He maintained his innocence all through his imprisonment. And even on that final morning when he ascended the scaffold, he clung tight to his insistence that he was wrongfully accused. And yet, during his very final moment, something shifted. Tuning out the thousands of spectators, Muller turned to that German minister, a man named

Dr. Cappell, and he whispered to Muller, In a few moments, you will stand before God. I ask you again and for the last time, are you guilty or not guilty? Not guilty, Muller replied. You are not guilty, Cappell asked. God knows what I have done, Muller replied. And then Cappell pushed for more. Does he also know that you have committed this crime?

The executioner reached for the lever. Muller's final moment had arrived. Yes, he finally said. Yes, I did it. As Muller's breath was taken from him, all of Britain seemed to breathe a little easier. Their storybook murder at last had received the storybook villain it demanded. Somewhere far off, a train's whistle blew. New technology can open up new horizons, progress and possibility, exciting new worlds eager

to be discovered. But it's a sort of Pandora's box, isn't it? In order to let the progress in, we also have to open the door to new, unimaginable terrors. I hope you enjoyed today's exploration of a new type of murder story, one that turned into a kind of folklore that few people haven't encountered. But while Franz Muller's murder of Thomas Briggs may have been the first murder in British railway history, it wouldn't be the last. I have one more railway killing I want to share with you. Stick around through this brief sponsor break to hear all about it. This episode of Lore was sponsored by Mint Mobile.

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They're different for all of us, but I think you can relate. We all carry around different stressors, big and small. But when we keep them bottled up, it can start to affect us negatively. Therapy is a safe space to get things off your chest and to figure out how to work through whatever is weighing you down. Therapy can help us process challenges and stress. It can empower us to be the best version of ourselves, because therapy isn't just for those who have experienced major trauma.

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would be assassinated in the United States. Billy the Kid would be shot and killed. Violence was abundant that summer, and in Britain, it was no different. Once again, we see a British train stopping at a station, a moment that should be nothing but routine. The ticket collector wanders from compartment to compartment, but as he reaches the first class, a man stumbles from the car ahead. The man is disheveled, missing his hat, his collar, and his tie. And even more alarming, he is drenched in blood.

He appears, according to some sources, to have been shot. So opens the scene of Britain's second murder on a train. The car itself was a mess. It too was covered in blood with multiple bullets that were lodged in the walls. The injured man told the ticket collector, and shortly after a police officer, that his name was Arthur LeFroy and that he was an author and a journalist. He said that there had been two other men in the compartment with him and that one of them had attacked him.

He'd heard a gunshot just before the train entered a tunnel and was then struck on the head and knocked unconscious. When he finally came to, he was alone. The other men had fled. After making a formal report down at the police station, Laphroaie headed to the hospital where they dressed his wounds. Once he was all wrapped up, he stood to go, insisting that he had to return to London right away.

But the doctor wanted to keep him longer. His wounds were no joke after all, and it was entirely possible that while LaFroy had survived the attack for now, the injuries might, like they did in Briggs' case, worsen. But LaFroy insisted, and so the man was released, stopping again at the police station one final time to offer a reward for the capture of the man who had attacked him. And with that, the victim took his leave. Except for one tiny caveat. He might not have been the victim at all. You see, as Laphroa and his police escort were making their way back into London, railway staff made a grisly discovery near the tracks in the Balcombe Tunnel. It was the body of an elderly man. This victim, a retired tradesman named Mr. Isaac

Frederick Gold, had been shot and stabbed several times, and had been robbed of whatever money had been on him. But that's not all that was stolen. And now this is going to sound very familiar after Mr. Briggs' story, but the assailant had also snatched Mr. Gold's gold watch, a gold watch that, unbeknownst to the police escort, was dangling at that very moment from Mr. LaFroy's pocket. Evidently, news of the discovery passed down the line fast as a steam train. It made it to the escort, who was told not to let LaFroy out of his sight. But by then it was too late. LaFroy had slipped away. The police had been duped. LeFroy wasn't the victim. He had been the killer.

A manhunt ensued. The police arrested a few people resembling Arthur LeFroy, or rather Percy LeFroy Mapleton, as was his true name, but none were the right guy. Once again, the public was getting nervous, and the authorities were becoming desperate. And maybe that's why, on July 1st of 1881, they decided to try an experiment, something the police had never done before in the history of manhunts.

That is, they commissioned a drawing of the suspect from a sketch artist who knew LaFroy personally. A simple black and white line drawing, showing a thin, weak-chin man in profile, a bowler hat upon his head. And that's right, this drawing of LaFroy was the first ever police sketch, or composite picture, to appear on a wanted poster and in the newspaper. And I know it seems kind of like a no-brainer,

one of those things that you might have just assumed had always been. But hey, once again, there is a first time for everything. The picture was printed along with a promise of a 100 pound reward. And meanwhile, LeFroy was on the run. Desperate to lie low, he rented a room from a woman in Stepney, living as a recluse and only coming out at night. And then, after a week, he sent a cryptic telegram to his employer asking for his wages. Evidently, this must have had his full name and address on it because as soon as they received it his employer alerted

the police. On Friday July 8th the cops showed up at LaFroy's door and arrested him. During his trial LaFroy dressed in full formal evening dress hoping to impress the jury but it didn't work. The evidence against him was as most sources say overwhelming not the least of which being of course that gold watch. It only the jury. But it didn't work. The evidence against him was, as most sources say, overwhelming, not the least of which being, of course, that gold watch. It only took the jury 10 minutes of deliberation to find him guilty of murder. He was sentenced to hang, which he did on November 29th of 1881. Now, for his part, Laphroa continued to assert that he was innocent of premeditated murder. He insisted that he only intended to frighten Mr. Gold in order to rob him.

He never wanted to kill him. But unfortunately for the doomed Mr. LaFroy, that wouldn't be enough to save him. After the jury read his guilty verdict, LaF late, you will learn that you have murdered me. This episode of Lore was narrated and produced by me, Aaron Manke, with writing by Jenna Rose Nethercott, research by Sam Alberti, and music by Chad Lawson. Don't like hearing the ads? I've got a solution for you. There is a paid version of Lore on Apple Podcasts and Patreon that is 100% ad-free.

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