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In the summer of 1858, the quiet fields of Westmeath hid a secret that would soon grip the county in fear. Lawrence Kelly, a labourer known to most and trusted by many, was found brutally slain—his death sparking whispers of betrayal, vengeance, and a darkness festering beneath the surface of rural life. As neighbours turned suspicious and authorities scrambled for answers, the case revealed a tangle of grudges and uneasy alliances that no one had dared speak aloud.

Tonight, we step back into that uneasy world—into the lanes, the lodges, and the long shadows of a community shaken to its core—to uncover what really happened to Lawrence Kelly, and why his murder still lingers in the memory of Westmeath.

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Liverpool, 1880. In the packed courts around Scotland Road, thousands of Irish families lived shoulder to shoulder, carrying with them the hunger, hardship, and resilience they’d brought across the water. Among them were two women—Catherine Flanagan and Margaret Higgins—Irish-born, sharp‑witted, and struggling to survive in a city that offered little mercy.

What they built in those narrow rooms was a scheme as cold as it was calculated: take out funeral insurance on the vulnerable, then use poison to turn policy into profit. Between 1880 and 1884, at least four people—children, relatives, lodgers—were murdered for payouts barely large enough to bury the dead.

Their crimes shocked Victorian Britain, not only for their brutality but for the way they exposed the desperation of the Irish poor in Liverpool and the dark opportunities created by the booming funeral insurance trade.

In this episode, we return to those shadowed streets to trace the women, their Irish roots, their victims, and the investigation that finally brought their killing spree to an end.

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In the winter of 1896, deep in the quiet fields of Tipperary, a tragedy unfolded that Victorian Ireland was neither equipped to understand nor willing to fully confront. It was a time when a woman’s mind—her despair, her exhaustion, her breaking point—was spoken of only in whispers, if at all. And in the case of Mrs. Sadlier, those silences became fatal.

What survives in the record is stark, clinical, and devastating. The official documents list no names for the children whose lives were lost— no descriptions, not even the dignity of identity. Just absence. A void where their stories should have been.

Tonight, we step into that void. We revisit a case shaped as much by the crushing weight of untreated mental anguish as by the rigid moral certainties of the age. And in doing so, we try—if only for a moment—to give voice to those whom history left unnamed.

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On a winter’s night in 1892, as the great bells of Mullingar Cathedral tolled across the town, a far darker sound stirred beneath the vaulted stone. By morning, whispers were already spreading: a body found where no violence should ever reach, a sacred place shaken by a crime that seemed to defy both reason and reverence. In a community bound by faith and routine, suspicion crept quickly, settling like frost on every doorstep.

Tonight, we step back into those uneasy days — into a case where piety, secrecy, and human frailty collided beneath the shadow of the cathedral spire. This is the story of a murder that rattled Mullingar to its core… and the investigation that followed its echo into the heart of Victorian Ireland.

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In the windswept west of Ireland, where the Atlantic mist clings to the fields and the nights fall early, the year 1881 brought a crime that unsettled even the hardiest of rural communities. Elizabeth Buchanan—young, respected, and known to many—was found dead under circumstances so disturbing, so steeped in secrecy and contradiction, that the case would echo far beyond her quiet corner of the countryside.

What began as a sudden and tragic death soon twisted into something far more sinister. Whispers of betrayal, hidden relationships, and the rigid moral codes of Victorian Ireland collided, leaving neighbours divided and investigators grasping for truth in a landscape where silence was often safer than honesty.

Tonight, we step back into that world of dim lamplight and unspoken fears, to unravel a case that exposed the fragile boundaries between respectability and ruin. This is the story of Elizabeth Buchanan—her life, her death, and the shadows that linger still.

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On a cold spring morning in 1901, the quiet streets of Galway stirred with a terror they had never known. A young woman—Sarah McGarry, just twenty‑three years old—was found brutally slain, her life stolen in the narrow hours before dawn. What followed was a storm of rumour, outrage, and fear that swept through the town like a rising tide.

In a community already strained by poverty, suspicion, and the shifting social sands of a new century, Sarah’s murder became more than a crime—it became a reckoning. Neighbours whispered behind closed doors. Families locked their windows. And the authorities, desperate for answers, found themselves entangled in a case where every clue seemed to twist into another question.

Who killed Sarah McGarry?
Why was she targeted?
And how did this single act of violence expose the darker undercurrents running beneath Galway’s respectable surface?

Step into the gaslit gloom as we peel back the layers of a case that shocked a town, haunted a nation, and left a legacy of unanswered questions that still echo through the streets of Galway today.

This is Murder Under Gaslight.
And this… is the story of Sarah McGarry.

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In the summer of 1853, a pleasure trip to Ireland’s Eye ended in horror. Maria Kirwan—young, elegant, and by all accounts in good spirits—was found dead on the rocks beneath the island’s jagged cliffs. What followed was a storm of suspicion, scandal, and courtroom drama that gripped Dublin society.

Was her death a tragic accident, a desperate struggle, or a calculated act carried out in one of the loneliest corners of the Irish coast? And why did the story told by her husband unravel the moment it was spoken aloud?

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In the summer of 1879, the quiet respectability of Richmond was shattered by a crime so brutal it stunned Victorian Britain. When the remains of wealthy widow Julia Martha Thomas were discovered scattered and burned, suspicion fell on her seemingly unremarkable Irish servant, Kate Webster — a woman with a past as dark as the Thames itself. What followed was a tale of deception, audacity, and cold‑blooded violence, culminating in one of the most sensational trials of the age.

How did a servant with nothing to her name manage to outwit neighbours, pawnbrokers, and even the police — if only for a moment? And what drove her to commit one of the most gruesome murders of the Victorian era?

Step back into the gaslit streets of Richmond as we unravel the chilling story of Kate Webster, the woman who shocked an empire.

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 In the summer of 1877, the quiet Cork village of Castletownroche was shattered by a crime so brutal it echoed far beyond its fields and farmsteads. What began as a dispute over land—an ordinary tension in a country shaped by ownership and survival—spiralled into a double murder that gripped Ireland and exposed the darker currents running beneath rural life. A Land to Die For revisits the Castletownroche murders, tracing the events, the people, and the legacy of a tragedy that still unsettles more than a century later. 

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In the spring of 1882, the quiet Westmeath estate of Barbavilla was shattered by a killing that sent shockwaves far beyond its gates. What began as a seemingly straightforward murder soon twisted into a tale of land disputes, secret loyalties, and a community caught between fear and suspicion. In the shadow of the Land War, nothing was simple—and nothing was as it first appeared.

In this episode, we step back into that charged moment in Irish history, tracing the events that led to the Barbavilla murder and the forces that shaped its aftermath.