It’s not often the victim of a murder can revisit the place of his  (or her) death with the police and go through step-by-step what happened  to them, but this next story is not a run of the mill murder case, as  all we be revealed.

Today’s story takes us back to March 1934, Sunday the 18th of March  to be precise, and to a small village hidden within the boundaries of  the Ribble Valley, Lancashire – Bashall Eaves.

On a wet and windy evening, James Dawson, a local farmer to the area,  visited his local pub The Edisford Inn (now known as The Edisford  Bridge) at around 7.15pm and after spending sometime there, drinking and  laughing with some of his friends, he left and made his way home at  around 9.00pm.

With his head bowed down and facing into the blistering wind and  rain, James made his way towards Back Lane, an unlit narrow road that is  just under a mile away from the The Edisford Inn and it would take him  around 15 to 20 minutes to get there.

Upon approaching the lane, the headlights of two cars came towards  him, revealing the shadowy figure of a man standing close by to a gate  on the left hand side of the road, opposite of the lane.

As the first car passed him, James noticed that four people were  inside and one of the occupants was Tommy Kenyon, a farm hand that  worked with James.  He was sat in the backseat of the car but James  couldn’t make out who the three other passengers where.

As the second car passed him, James noticed that the shadowy figure  that was stood alongside the gate had now seemingly vanished.

Making his way into Back Lane, James began walking into the darkness  but had barely walked thirty yards when suddenly, out of nowhere he  heard what he described to be a ‘clicking’ sound and then he felt a  sudden stinging pain towards the back of his left shoulder.

Whether or not it had been the alcohol that he had consumed during  the evening that had taken the edge out of the inevitable stinging  sensation is open to interpretation, but at the time James reportedly  said to an investigating officer that he just thought someone was having  a lark and he thought it was nothing more than a stone that was thrown  at him.

When scrolling through endless newspapers and online articles dating  back to the 1800s, I’m amazed at how many stories I come across on a  daily basis where a child has died in an unfortunate accident or has  been murdered by either their own parents or by some assailant whom they  may never have seen before. And on each occasion, I think of a famous  quote made by American playright – Stephen Adly Guirgis; “No parent  should have to bury a child … No mother should have to bury a son.  Mothers are not meant to bury sons. It is not in the natural order of  things.”

It goes without saying that he is absolutely correct and yet the stories are never ending.

And with that being said, today’s story does contain upsetting  material involving many children that found themselves in a truly  frightening situation back on Friday the 1st March 1867 in the small  town of Accrington.

Now Accrington, is situated within approximately 4 miles east of  Blackburn, 6 miles west of Burnley and 13 miles of Preston in the North  West of England.

With the introduction of the Industrial Revolution  in the mid-eighteenth century, the population within the town rocketed  and by the 19th century it was reported that around 43,000 people  resided in the town. Being mainly known for its textiles and coal mining  activities, people flooded into the area all looking for work which  brought with it many issues such as poor living conditions, poor  education and poor hygiene and of course crime.

Our story today takes place during 1867 when Accrington was facing one of its toughest periods as the Lancashire Cotton Famine that occurred between 1861 and 1865 had badly affected the town. Some  factories had over produced but had nowhere to sell it too, whilst many  more had an overabundance of raw cotton that filled their entire  warehouses. This resulted in mass unemployment leaving almost half of  the town’s population without work. From what was once one of Britain’s  most prosperous places to live and work, the area had quickly become one  of the most impoverished.

For those of you who have listened to previous true crime podcasts  here on this site, you will have listened to the tragic case of Emily Holland – a 7 year old girl who was brutally attacked and then dismembered by a local barber by the name of William Fish.  This event took place during the early months of 1876 and caused a  sensation only topped by that of the famous Jack the Ripper murders that  would occur some 12 years later, due its barbarity and callousness on a  selfless little girl.

So no-one would ever expect something like that to ever happen again and especially within the same town.

How wrong they would be.

On Tuesday, the 8th November, 1892 – 9 year old Alice Barnes had  spent the early part of the day at school and returned home at around  noon. After washing some dishes, she would leave home just before 1pm  with her sister, Mary, to take cows down to the pastures within Witton  Park – something which she did on a regular basis as her father, Edward  had rented out the fields close to his family farm which was situated  around 10 to 15 minutes’ walk away from Witton.

Passing through Selbourne Street and then Spring Lane before finally  making their way down Buncer Lane, Alice and Mary soon reached the  entrance to the park, and upon arriving, Alice told Mary to return back  to the farm and to take a calf that had strayed off into a field with  her, which she did. Mary returned back at the farm around 10 to 15  minutes later but when Alice didn’t return back and after half-an-hour  had passed, her father, asked his son, Thomas, to make his way down to  Witton to see where she was.

As Thomas made his way down Buncer Lane, just one of the few roads  that would eventually lead to one of the entrances into Witton Park, he  came across a small group of people that had gathered on the roadside,  seemingly shocked and horrified at something that was lying on the  ground.

Nearing them, it would soon become apparent, possibly from the  clothing that she was wearing, that that something in question was none  other than his sister, Alice.

Domestic abuse or “wife beating” was a prominent occurrence in  Victorian England with many victims having to put up with abuse on a  daily basis.  It was socially acceptable for that period and was seen by  many as nothing more than a lower class issue.

It’s been written in many publications that during the Victorian era,  religion played a big part in culture and that for a woman to be  virtuous and to serve god, they must follow the lead of her husband.  This of course seemingly gave the nod for husbands to control and do  whatever they deemed appropriate to their wives, which, in many  instances, meant physical violence.

With that said, let’s get into today’s story and we are travelling  way back to the early morning of Saturday, 19th August, 1899 and to the  small town of Whitworth which resides between Bacup and Rochdale in the parish of Rossendale, England.

Ellen Dowdle, a 35 year weaver and mother to five  children had spent a couple of hours working at the Whitworth Co-Op  Mill, covering for another worker who was off sick.  She had agreed to  work three days a week, taking on four looms in doing so and with the  promise of more work to follow.

By mid-morning, she was working alongside another mill employee when she spoke about being worried about going home, saying; “A fear there’s bound to be trouble for me” to which the other employee replied; “Oh don’t think that Mrs Dowdle; it’ll be dinner time soon an’ then the work’ll be done.“

Finishing work at around noon, Ellen made her way to Grove Terrace  where she had been living for the past week with Mr and Mrs O’Brien  after having left her marital home at 20 Copeland Street the week  before, following a huge row with her husband, Michael.

She would stay there for much of the afternoon until around 3.00pm –  when it was reported that after her husband called at the house, and  after a short discussion between the pair, she was persuaded by Michael  to return back home with him.

This would be the last time the O’Brien’s would ever see their friend, Ellen, alive ever again.

Many times we hear of serious crimes taking place in areas which are  never close to home and we always think to ourselves it would never  happen where you live, and yet crimes, and especially murders may well  have happened closer than you realize – sometimes you just have to do a  little digging.

Haslingden is a small town that resides within the district of Rossendale.  Surrounded by moorland, it is situated roughly 16 miles North of  Manchester, with neighboring towns and villages such as Rawtenstall,  Helmshore, Rising Bridge, Acre and Hud Hey all within close proximity.

By the late 1800’s, the population was around 19,000 with many  residents working within the factories and mills that had prospered  during Industrial Revolution due to the mechanization of the wool,  cotton and spinning industries.

And it is in this setting that we travel back to the 20th August 1880  and to the home of Mary and Dennis Molloy, mop maker, that was situated  on Wilkinson Street, or as it was known then, New Club Houses – just off Marsden Square at the top of the town. As you can probably gather, the surname –  Molloy – is of Irish origin and it was in this part of town that a large  gathering of Irish families had settled, with one name in particular  that some of you may have already heard of; Michael Davitt – the founder of the ‘Land League‘  back in 1879 which was responsible for liberating the Irish peasantry  from the injustices of the land rental scheme; but this is a story for  another time!

It was close to around 2.00pm when James, aged 20 and the third  eldest of nine children, arrived back at home eagerly looking forwards  to having his lunch after spending much of the day transporting goods  around town as a carter.

Being of a somewhat poor neighborhood, the house was in a terrible  state and witness accounts that spoke of Mary and Dennis seem to  indicate they spent most of their time in a drunken stupor, with Dennis  perhaps being the more guilty of the two when it came to worse-for-wear  with drink.

Not having much in the way of food, Mary went out to a local shop  nearby to purchase some ham, eggs and coffee and when she arrived back  home some short time later, James sat down at the kitchen table and  tucked into the food she had brought back.

Meanwhile, his father, Dennis Molloy, who had been sleeping upstairs,  was awoken by the sound of his wife and James talking downstairs.  Making his way down and into the kitchen, he ordered his son to leave  the house saying; “he should have no dinner here.”

Winifred Molloy, nine years of age who was in the house at the time  had made her way into the kitchen by the time her mother came back and  heard her father shouting at James.

Children appearing in youth or crown courts in Wales and England  cannot be named if they are under the age of 18, apart from exceptional  circumstances as the European Convention on Human Rights says that all  children have a right to privacy and a family life – which basically  means that once they have served their sentence they then have a right  to move on with their life.

But this was certainly not the case back in 1902 when, on Friday,  17th January – news broke of a boy who was charged with the willful  murder of another boy going by the name of James Edward Rostron, aged 12, who had been missing since Wednesday, 15th January.

Frank Kershaw, aged 13 and who lived with his parents at Higher Lane, Haslingden in the North West of England, had known James for some time as both  families lived nearby to each other, with the Rostron’s living at nearby  Church Lane.  And despite both boys being employed within different mills, Kershaw working at Hutch Bank Mill and Rostron working at nearby Plantation Mill, they would both see each other on a daily basis once work and schools had closed for the day.

They would also attend different schools.  Frank Kershaw spent his afternoons at the Parish Church School whereas James Rostron would be educated at the Wesleyan School just off Manchester Road and it was from here that both children would  meet up on a regular basis before making their way to their homes at the  top end of Haslingden.

On the day of James’s disappearance on the Wednesday, both boys had  been into work and as had been a regular occurrence in the past, Kershaw  had called at the home of James at around 6am that morning before they  both made their way into town and to their respected places of work.

Both boys would spend their mornings in the mills and then, after  visiting their home’s for lunch, they would make their way into their  respective schools.

Normally, both of the boys would leave school sometime around four  o’clock in the afternoon but on this day in particular, Kershaw had said  to Charles Henry Heathcote, head master of the Parish Church School,  that he was wanted back at the mill he worked at and could he leave  school a little earlier, to which he was allowed to leave at around  3.40pm.

Kershaw would then make his way over to the Wesleyan School and after speaking to a teacher named Sarah Swire, she allowed Rostron to also leave school early that day – at around 3.45pm.

Rostron and Kershaw would both make their way along Manchester Road in the direction of Deardengate before  turning right onto what is now known as Higher-Deardengate.  It’s at  this point that a discussion about a watch that was sent to James  Rostron from his Uncle who was then in South Africa, may have been  brought up and perhaps Kershaw didn’t believe that his friend had such a  valuable item in his possession, but one thing that is certain is that  James Rostron went into his house shortly after four o’clock and was  last heard rummaging around in a drawer.  His mother, Elizabeth was  in the back room and heard the drawer being opened.  Upon shouting from  the back room and asking what he was doing, James shouted back that he  was “going out to play”.

On the afternoon of Monday, 12th September 1853, Jane Collinge made her way to the home of 31 year old Elizabeth Cunliffe, her step-daughter, fearing that something terrible may have happened since they last spoke the previous day.

Elizabeth had suffered from severe depression since the birth of her daughter Alice Hannah,  back in January of that same year and had been in a low state of mind  for the past three months, at one point telling her stepmother that her  soul would be eventually lost and only on the previous evening she said  that there was no chance of her father, herself or her stepmother going  to heaven – which, as you can imagine would have been an unsettling  thing to hear.

As she approached Elizabeth’s home, the porch door was open but upon  trying the front door, she found it was bolted from the inside. Still  worried about the previous evening and seeing how troubled Elizabeth  seemed, Jane quickly hot-footed her way back to her house to inform her  husband, John.

A few minutes later and just after 2.00pm, John, along with Jane as  well as Mary Dyson, a neighbour of the Cunliffe’s, would return to  Elizabeth’s home and, just like his wife had already encountered, John  found the front door to be fastened from the inside.  After a few  minutes of struggling, he somehow managed to force the door open and  began to search the house for any signs of Elizabeth or any of her  children.

The fire was out and it seemed the house was empty but John knew that  was impossible as the front door had been locked from the inside so  somebody must be in the house.  Making his way upstairs and upon  entering one of the bedrooms he saw not only three of Elizabeth’s  children laying on one of the beds but also that of Elizabeth lying on  another, her body entirely covered in bed clothes.

Fearing the worst, he removed the sheets, revealing Elizabeth who was  wearing a night dress and two petticoats that had by now been besmeared  with blood.  Her head was downwards being supported by her hands and  she had two handkerchiefs tied around her neck which he tried to lift.  In doing so, blood gushed from the neck and whilst he didn’t see any  wounds, he could hear wind rattling in her throat. Alarmed, he  immediately replaced the handkerchiefs.  Standing back, he noticed blood  was trickling onto the floor beneath the bed and this is when the most  shocking of sights would reveal itself.

On the afternoon of April 11th, 1905, roughly around 3.00pm – a rag  and bone man by the name of David Shields was going around searching for  unwanted items of rags and other wares he could go on to sell, when,  after making his way along the backs of Hoyle Street within the Ardwick area of Manchester,  he noticed the back door of number 24 open.  As all of the houses on  the street had been abandoned for some time, curiosity got the better of  him.  Making his way into the yard, he saw a sack and part of an egg  box that had been left leaning against the wall of the house.  Behind  these items, there was a hole – around twenty inches by sixteen, that  led directly into the cellar.

As he kneeled down, he peered into the abyss below and after a few  seconds elapsed and his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, he slowly  began to make out the form of a body lying on the floor which he took to  be a man.  As he clambered into the hole, he was horrified to see it  wasn’t a man after all, but a young boy who had been maltreated in a  most brutal manner.

Panic set in almost immediately.  Shields quickly made his way out of  the cellar and on his passing, he informed another rag and bone man by  the name of Harris who was working close by.  Both men then headed  towards Fairfield Police Station which was situated only a matter of minutes’ walk away.

What Shields had uncovered that day would reignite the fears that had  suffocated the East End of London during 1888 and what is now commonly  known as the autumn of fear or as many know it, the Jack the Ripper murders.

Think of Victorian England and images of cobbled streets, horse drawn carriages, mills and towering chimneys come to mind and of course, gas lamps flickering through the swirling fog that always seemed to linger much longer during the latter end of each year and into the New Year due to the wetter conditions and stillness of the air.

The North West of England had encountered such thick fog during the second week of January 1888, causing four days of unprecedented havoc in places such as Liverpool as it practically brought the canals and other sea faring traffic to a standstill. In Yorkshire, many pits struggled as colliers had to walk long distances just to get into work, leaving many of them with fewer hands to do a day's work leading to great financial losses.

In Accrington, a steam tramcar ran into a shillibeer on a road close to Haslingden, smashing it into bits and leaving one horse badly injured. Fortunately, no persons where on the carriage at the time of the collision.

Meanwhile, over in Clitheroe, traffic was impeded to such an extent that delays on the railway lines where inevitable and in the streets, several accidents had occurred.

But for this story, we are travelling into Hapton a relatively small village which is situated just three miles west of Burnley and to the events that occurred on Thursday, 12th October 1888.

After arriving within the train station at Accrington, the Todmorden express, driven by James Johnson departed shortly around 6.37pm before making its way towards to Huncoat. Traversing through the dense fog, Johnson managed to sustain a relatively good speed and having arrived at Huncoat on time, he pulled up by a signal where he would wait for around two minutes before being signaled forwards to make his way over to Hapton which was situated around 2 miles away and in the direction of Burnley.

His approach towards Hapton Station was a relatively normal one, albeit for the fog, and as he made his way closer to the station, he distinctly noticed all of the signals where lit up white, clearing the way through. Unaware of the impending danger in front of him, Johnson maintained his speed as the express train passed through Hapton.

Ahead of him was a Miles Platting goods train that had passed through only minutes earlier and which was standing on the main line. The driver, Walter Haywood, had been told by George Goodwin, pointsman - who was in charge of the signal box, to pass through and move a few hundred yards further up the line until he arrived at the points that fed onto a siding where he could then reverse the goods train back and thus into a safe location as to allow the express train to pass by safely. However, it seems he missed the points and stopped slightly ahead of them. The guard of the train, James Thomas Hill, made his way out and began to walk down the line so he could direct Haywood into shunting the train backwards and onto the sideline.

Unfortunately, and just like James Johnson, driver of the express train, he was also unaware of the danger that was quickly approaching.