The River Thames flows for 215 miles from the
Cotswolds to the Thames Estuary, and it’s one of England’s flagship sights. The name Thames
comes from the old English word Temisis, meaning 'dark one', and this river's history is every
bit as dark as that of the land it runs through. They say that on average one body a week is pulled
from the River Thames. Some are found relatively easily, while others are found much later and
in varying states. Some, I’m sure, are never found again. This could have easily been the case in
this story if it wasn’t for a chance discovery on the Thames Embankment at
Waterloo Bridge in 1866. On Tuesday January 16th, some men working within a caisson, which is a submerged airtight chamber, during the extension of the embankment next to Somerset House in Strand, found a human skeleton several feet beneath the river bed. The skeleton, which was complete apart from the
bones on the hands and feet, was handed over to a police officer named Bell, who then passed them on
to coroner J.W. Payne Esquire. An inquest was held at a pub in on Essex Street called The Essex Head
(which is now the Edgar Wallace). On the opening day, which was Thursday January 18th, coroner
J.W. Payne laid the skeleton out on a table next to items found with it. They consisted of
a set of false teeth set in gold, a small knife, a pair of tortoiseshell glasses, and a silver
pencil case marked with the maker’s name, the patent number, and the date of registration.
It read: ‘John Sheldon, 1184, April 8 1842’. The clothing was almost completely destroyed
apart from a single boot of military fashion, an upper section of a coat and part of a
trouser leg. There were two half pennies in the pocket of what remained of the coat, but
unsurprisingly no identify papers were found. One of the most interesting things presented at
the inquest was a key marked with the maker’s name and address.
It read: ‘Chubb, St. Paul’s Churchyard, No. 29’. Locksmith, John Chubb whose father, Charles Chubb,
founded the now well known company, said that all keys were numbered, and that particular key –
number 29 – was one of 30 keys which had been issued to a Government office in 1839. According
to the coroner and a surgeon named John Walsh, the bones had been in the water for between
15 and 20 years. They belonged to a male, approximately 5 foot 6, who was between
50 and 60 years old. The skull was intact, which goes against many newspaper reports
at the time which stated that it was fractured. John Walsh said that there were no clear signs
of violence to any of the remaining bones. The Pierman at Waterloo Bridge was Mr. William
Watts. Watts, alongside Inspector Dell of the Thames police, had dredged and inspected the
surrounding area where the skeleton was found. In their opinion the person had become,
quote, “sand bound” some years ago. Judging by the military style of the boots, the
gold-set false teeth, the silver pencil case, and the high quality of the coat and trousers,
which were examined by a tailor, it was assumed that the person had been in a superior position
in life, and was likely a military man. The inquest was adjourned awaiting an
appeal to the government military offices and the results of the enquiry into the key.
The inquest continued on Thursday January 25th. The coroner had been in contact with the
Secretary of State for War, George Robinson, for whom the key had beb made, but after a
search of all records, no information was found. A person from Whitechapel came forward to say that
their 23-year-old brother, who had been a heavy gambler, went missing some years ago and that
they’d always suspected he’d been murdered after a successful night. A journalist for the Cheltenham
Examiner newspaper tactlessly wrote that it was more likely his brother had committed suicide
after an unsuccessful night. As the age of the man didn’t match the coroner’s estimated age of 50
to 60, little credence was given to either theory. The false teeth were traced to a manufacturer
on Broad Street, now known as Broadwick street, close to Golden Square, but as they had only made
the teeth, they had no idea which dentist had set them. The inquest was adjourned again pending more
enquiries. February 9th, 1866 was the final day of the inquest, and it was predominantly taken up by
evidence given by one Harriet Elizabeth Clopham, who resided at 160 Goswell Street, which is now
Goswell Road in Clerkenwell. She had come forward to say that her husband, who had been a
wealthy architect, went missing in 1851. They had only been married 13 months and at the time of his
disappearance their child was only two weeks old. The woman, who was clearly emotional, explained
that he had last been seen close to Blackfriars Bridge, which is less than a mile east of
Waterloo Bridge. When presented with the various items that had been found with the remains,
Mrs. Clopham was vague in her recollection. She thought she recognised the pencil case
as her husbands, but could not be sure. Her husband did carry a knife, but she
didn’t think it was the one presented to her. Her recollection of the glasses was equally vague. When asked about the false teeth, she said she did
not know if her husband had false teeth or not. Coroner J.W Payne, said that surely she would
know this, but Clopham explained that she rarely saw her husband, and bizarrely, that he used
to keep his mouth closed in a peculiar way. She added that he had a very high, large
nose. The coroner confirmed that judging by the nasal cavity on the skull, this must
have been true in the case of the deceased. However, in summing up, the coroner said that
Mrs. Clopham had not clearly identified any of the belongings, adding that she had no knowledge
of the false teeth. The matter of the teeth was brought before the Dentological Society, and
although every effort had been made to find out who the teeth were issued to, nothing was
found. After some discussion, the jury stated that there was no way of knowing how the body
ended up at the embankment near Somerset House, and no way to determine the cause of death.
They returned an open verdict. Capital punishment has a long and grim history
in Britain. The means of punishment have taken many horrific forms, but hanging was,
for centuries, the preferred method. During the 18th and 19th centuries hangings for
murder, treason and other serious crimes were most commonly carried out at either the gallows
at Tyburn or Newgate Prison. But for offences like piracy, mutiny and other crimes committed at
sea, a fate even worse than the Tyburn or Newgate gallows faced prisoners on the Thames foreshore at
Wapping. This map from 1746 shows the location of the Execution Stairs which leads to the Wapping
foreshore where pirate hangings took place - and this is the same location today. But the
exact location of the gallows is disputed. Some historians believe it was located at
what is now the Execution Dock House, because the site is marked with a large E. Other
possible locations are the Captain Kidd pub (named after a pirate who was executed here), the
Town of Ramsgate pub, or the Prospect of Whitby pub, located less than half a mile downstream, where
a replica of the gallows stands. What is known for certain is that this small
stretch of the Thames shore saw the death of numerous sailors and pirates, hanged for their
seafaring crimes as far back as the 15th century. The prisoners, once found guilty, were most
commonly held at Marshalsea Prison in Southwark. On the day of the execution they were taken
from their cell and paraded along London Bridge, past the Tower of London and through the streets
of Wapping. The procession itself was led by the Admiralty Marshal or one of his deputies.
Along this route, on Wapping High Street, was a pub called the Turk’s Head. This was the
designated place for a prisoner to be served his last quart of ale before the procession
continued. The original Wapping High Street Turk’s Head no long stands, and is often confused
with the present day Turk’s Head, which itself dates back to the 19th century, and can be found
on the corner of Green Bank and Trench Street. Executions were a popular social event. The
streets were often lined with spectators, and the river was busy with crowded boats.
The gallows, which were constructed on the Thames shore, had a much shorter rope than
usual. This was to make sure that when hanged, the prisoner’s neck would not break. Instead they
would suffer a much slower death by asphyxiation. During the final throes of death, the
prisoner would often spasm grotesquely. This became known as the Marshal’s Dance.
The dead prisoner would then be cut down, chained to the bank of the Thames, and left there until they
had been submerged by three tides of the river. One of the best-known cases is that of the
infamous Scottish pirate, Captain William Kidd, who pirated for Richard Coote, the Governor
of New York, Massachusetts, and New Hampshire. In 1698, Kidd took control of the Quedagh
merchant ship. The ship had a crew of Armenian sailors, but what Kidd did not
realise is that the ship’s captain was British, and part of the cargo was destined for England.
For this takeover, and the earlier murder of one of his own crewmen who had turned against him,
William Kidd became a wanted man in England. Richard Coote, the man who Kidd had worked for,
fearing for his own life, handed him over to British authorities. William Kidd was imprisoned
at Boston Gaol for a year, before being returned to England to face his punishment. He was
hanged at the Execution Dock on May 23rd 1701, but the rope snapped. Many onlookers believed
that this was a sign from God that he should not face execution, but he was retrieved
and hanged again. This time successfully. In a ritual that only applied to the most infamous
of criminals, Kidd was then taken to Tilbury in Essex and gibbeted, or hung in chains on the
Thames shore. His slowly deteriorating corpse was left there to hang for years as a warning to
other seafaring criminals. The Execution Dock, which was used less frequently as the decades
passed, saw its final hangings in 1830. The story behind what led to the executions of William
Watts and George Davies is an intriguing one: The ship known as the Cyrus was built in 1816
and first launched in Sunderland, England. Ten years later it was purchased for the purpose of
transporting prisoners to Tasmania, which was then known as Van Dieman’s Land. In what would be her
last voyage in 1829, there was a mutiny on board. While the ship was anchored at Recherche Bay,
nineteen of the 31 convicts took control of the vessel. One of them, William
Swallow, was forced to take the helm because he was the only prisoner with sailing experience. They
left behind 12 other convicts and the ship’s crew. The Cyprus then sailed to New Zealand where the
prisoners plundered a schooner called the Samuel for the seal skins its crew had gathered. From
there they sailed to Tonga where seven of the prisoners decided to remain, and then on to Japan.
By now the prisoners, desperately low on food and water, sought help. But they were attacked by
the Japanese and forced back to the high seas. This time they sailed to Canton in China,
where the prisoners deliberately sunk the Cyrus and claimed that they were
castaways from another ship. Eventually William Swallow and four other
men, including George Davies and William Watts, made their way back to England on a British
owned ship called the Charles Grant. One of the prisoners who remained in China, however, confessed
to taking part in the mutiny, and by chance, word got back to London before
the Charles Grant arrived there a week later. When recaptured, William Swallow, George
Davies, William Watts and the two other men faced trial for their involvement in the mutiny.
However, Swallow was ultimately spared the death penalty because he claimed he’d been forced
to sail the ship, and with his life at stake, it was agreed that he had little choice. The two
remaining men were also acquitted due to their good conduct since capture and the poor conditions
they were subjected to during the voyage. After George Davies and William Watts
were marched down to the Execution Dock, they turned to one another and shook hands
before facing their slow and painful deaths. An account of the voyage written by William
Swallow included a dramatic account of the events in Japan. For many years this
was thought to be complete fiction. That is until 2017, when amateur historian
Nick Russell, whilst living on the island of Shikoku, uncovered an 1830 account
written by Samurai Makita Hamaguchi. It describing a barbarian ship, flying a British
flag, and coming ashore at Shikoku. It states that when a number of Samurai boarded and searched the
vessel, they found prisoners on board who begged for their lives and offered gifts. Despite this
they where sent away due to Japan’s isolationist policy, which meant they were a strictly closed
country. Many points of Hamaguchi’s account matched those described by Swallow, and it
even included a watercolour painting of the ship. Just before 1pm on Sunday July 21st, 1895,
a man named Charles Routledge, who was a lieutenant of the South Staffordshire Regiment,
found the body of a young woman at Marlow Lock in Buckinghamshire. She lay in three feet of
water with one arm outstretched onto the shore. Routledge and the lock keeper, Mr.
Gray, rowed out to retrieve her body before turning it over to the police.
She was found to be heavily pregnant, there was a small glass vial in the pocket of her
blue dress, and the body was badly decomposed. At the inquest held on July 24th
at the Two Brewers pub in Marlow, John Norcott and his family, who lived
at West Hill in nearby Henley-on-Thames, identified the girl as their daughter and sister,
18-year-old Agnes Norcott. The family recognised the blue dress and her silver brooch, but it was
a mole on her left leg and the fact that she was pregnant that left that no doubt in their minds.
The family explained that she has been seeing a 25-year-old married man by the name of Frank
King, who was the father of her unborn child. The couple had left Henley-on-Thames
from Shiplake train station on July 4th. They were seen off by Agnes’s sister Lily,
who said they were visiting Hampton Court. As Frank King was the last person to be seen with Agnes,
he was suspected of killing her. A verdict of wilful murder was returned, and the inquest was
adjourned for two weeks awaiting King’s arrest. Agnes was interred at Holy Trinity Church
in Henley-on-Thames immediately following the inquest. On her coffin was a plaque with
the inscription, ‘Agnes Norcott, aged 18’. The following day, murder suspect Frank King
arrived at the Henley-on-Thames police station. Accompanying him, alive and well, was Agnes
Norcott. Frank and Agnes had read about the inquest and the fact that Frank was a wanted man
during their return journey. They were both given summonses to attend the adjourned inquest on
August 7th. As the body found at Marlow Lock was now interred, the only thing that remained of
the girl prior to an exhumation was the dress and brooch she wore. It was these items that led to
the body being correctly identified as Alice Few. The pregnant 22-year-old had left her home
in Egham on July 15th to visit her fiancé George Lockyear in Guildford, and had not been
heard from since. According to her friends she was in high spirits when she left, but after
they had not heard from her in a few days, a letter was sent to George Lockyear’s home. They
received the reply that Alice had never arrived. So how did Alice, who left Egham to travel to
Guildford end up in Marlow Lock which was 16 miles in the opposite direction? Well, seeing as
Alice’s sister once lived in Henley-on-Thames (but unbeknownst to Alice had recently removed away) it
was surmised that she intended to pay her a visit, possibly for advice regarding her pregnancy, but
had somehow ended up in the Thames at Henley, and was carried downstream to Marlow. July 15th,
the day of Alice’s departure, is thought to be the day she died, as her body was said to have
been in the water for between a week and ten days when it was recovered on July 21st. In
light of the mistaken identity and the fact there was still an unexplained death afoot, the
inquest continued as planned. When Frank King and Agnes Norcott gave evidence, King explained
that he was not married as had been reported, but he had been living with a woman who had passed
for his wife. On July 4th, the day that Frank and Agnes caught the train, the woman had left him, taking
her four children, none of which were his. He confirmed that he and Alice had been having an
affair and that he was the father to her child. A woman named Maria Few, who was the mother of the deceased, then
presented a photograph of her late daughter which showed her wearing the same dress
and brooch she had worn the day she died. A shoemaker by the name of Joseph Shipway also
gave evidence to say that the heels on the boots that Alice wore were repaired by him.
He said he knew that the deceased was Alice because in his 20-year-career, he had
only made two repairs of that kind. The body, now exhumed, was unrecognisable so the
identification notes from the first inquest were shown, and the curious series of coincidences that
led to the mistaken identity were addressed. First of all, it was agreed that the dress and brooch
were almost identical to those worn by Agnes, the women were of similar
height with fair complexions, both were pregnant, and they both had
moles in the same place on the left leg. Aside from this, there was a graze on the cheek
and a bruise behind the ear. According to coroner John Dickson, these wounds had occurred in the
river after death. The tongue was partially bitten off, but Dickson said this was most likely
self-inflicted in the throes of drowning. When Alice’s fiancé George Lockyear gave evidence, he
said he had received a letter from Alice on July 15th saying that she would visit him on that day.
He also said that, although they were engaged to be married, they had not slept together and he had
no idea that she was eight months pregnant. This curious statement may have been a bad attempt to
save face in a conservative Victorian-era England. On the other hand, if it was true, could it have
been the reason for Alice’s attempt to find her sister? And after realising that she wasn’t there
to help her, could she have taken her own life? The subject of suicide was then raised. The
glass vial found in the dress was suspected by many to have contained poison, but after
it was tested prior to the burial, it was found to contain nothing more than peppermint.
There were also no signs of poison in the body. With no clear signs of foul play, the final
verdict given on August 7th 1895 was that Alice Few had drowned in the Thames at Marlow. As a
slightly humorous post-script to an otherwise sad story, Frank King was brought before the coroner
at the end of the inquest. He was chastised for his, quote, “disgraceful mode of life”, and
was only reimbursed part of his expenses. It was Thursday, August 27th 1981, when 17-year-old Claire
Woolterton went to meet John Ive at an amusement arcade on Uxbridge Road, West Ealing. Soon after
her arrival the couple got into an argument and Claire insisted on walking home. She left at
around 10pm, and began the 4 mile walk towards her home in Northolt, northwest London. John Ive
followed her part of the way and tried to persuade Claire to get into his car, but she refused. It was 6:30 the next morning when Detective
Superintendent Ken Linney, of the Thames Valley police, received the message that a body
had been found on the River Thames promenade at Barry Avenue in Windsor, by a man named
Kevin Deacon who was on his way to work. During the course of that same day,
Claire’s mother reported her missing, but it wasn’t until the evening that she heard
that a body had been found. The location of the body was a good 12 miles from Claire’s home, but
her family feared the worst. Those fears were soon realised when police identified Claire’s body
using photographs given to them by her mother, although other sources say the identification
was made through dental records. Claire Woolterton had been stripped of her
clothing, strangled and sadistically mutilated. None of her clothing was ever found.
When John Ive, the man Claire had been seeing, was arrested on suspicion of her murder, he
explained that on the night she had gone missing he had returned home after she refused his lift.
His neighbour, who had seen him arrive home was considered a genuine
alibi, so Ive was taken off the suspects’ list. After Claire’s murder received
a great deal of press coverage, a women came forward to say that she’d seen a
young girl pulled into a dark coloured car at the junction of Uxbridge Road and Yeading Lane, which
was a short distance from Claire’s home. But her account was so vague, the car was never traced.
House-to-house enquiries in the area followed, and past convicted criminals with histories of
violent and sexual offences were investigated. After a seven-month-long investigation, the
methods at the disposal of the Thames Valley police in the early 1980s failed to yield
any useful leads. One of these methods, known as ‘taping’, was used to lift debris
from Claire’s skin with adhesive tape. That tape was then put into storage in the
hope it would one day hold forensic clues. On the morning of December 23rd 1984, the
body of 29-year-old Deirdre Sainsbury was found in a wooded area of Denham golf course
in Buckinghamshire. The similarities between the deaths of Deirdre and Claire were stark.
Neither body had been concealed, both had been attacked with a sharp implement post-mortem,
and in this case one breast was removed. Detective Ken Linney who headed the 1981 murder
investigation, spoke out immediately. It was his belief that the same person was responsible.
And the outcome could have been the same if it wasn’t for one vigilant person. After seeing a
young woman hitch-hiking and then get into a car, a man who had recently read an article in
Readers Digest about the dangers of hitch-hiking, quickly took down the registration. That
registration led police to the home of 37-year-old salesman and amateur
hockey enthusiast, Colin Campbell. When a quick search of his home uncovered
clothing belonging to Deirdre Sainsbury, Campbell admitted to killing her, but his
explanation was bizarre to say the least. He said that after he had picked her up from
Upper Richmond Road, Roehampton on the evening of December 22nd, the two of them got on very well.
So well, in fact that he made a move on Deirdre. When she responded by slapping him in the face, he
said he slapped her back, unintentionally knocking her unconscious. Because she now knew his name,
he thought that she may report him to the police, so he took a hockey stick from his car and beat
her across the head with it. He then said that when he was sure she was dead, he mutilated her body
to make it look as if a psychopath had done it. Now charged with the murder of Deirdre Sainsbury,
Campbell was questioned about the Woolterton murder. He denied any knowledge of it, and with
no further evidence to link him to the crime, nothing more could be done. Campbell stood
trial for Sainsbury’s murder in July of 1985. For his defence, he claimed that he had suffered
an epileptic fit while he was with Sainsbury, and it was the fit that lead him unintentionally
killing her. The judge and jury did not accept this explanation and Campbell as
sentenced to 24 years in prison for murder. 11 years later he appealed his conviction, again
claiming that an epileptic fit had caused him to kill. In-fact he had found a professional in
the field of medicine who upheld this theory on the grounds that Campbell had, at the
time, been on the wrong kind of medication. Therefore, in his opinion, the attack on Deirdre
could have been a result of the effects caused by that medication. A retrial was granted. This took
place in 1999. In light of his new defence, the murder charge was quashed. However, it was agreed
that Campbell was still a danger to the public, so he was to remain behind bars for
the lesser conviction of manslaughter. It had been 30 years since the
brutal murder of Claire Woolterton. Since then many cold cases had been reopened and
re-examined using modern DNA testing techniques. Beginning in 2007, an operation headed by
Peter Bierne of the Thames Valley Police, re-opened a series of London-based cold cases.
In 2011 Claire Woolterton’s case got its turn, and it was the 30-year-old adhesive tape
that was under the police spotlight. When minute hairs lifted in 1981, were tested
for DNA, and the results were run through the national DNA database, one name stood out.
It was the now 66-year-old Colin Campbell. When confronted, Campbell said that he did not
remember Claire Woolterton, but added that he had been acquainted with numerous women in
his younger years, suggesting that his hair could have been passed on to her body after
an innocent meeting. This was disregarded by the Crown Prosecution Service and Colin Campbell
was charged with the murder of Claire Woolterton. On November 15th 2013, he stood trial at Reading
Crown Court. He pleaded not guilty, and cited the same defence as he had at the 1999 retrial for
the murder of Deirdre Sainsbury; that being the wrong medication had caused him to act in an
uncontrollable, violent manner which led to the death of Ms. Woolterton. But the same medical
professionals who had upheld his claim in 1999 were now of the opinion that medication should not
be blamed for two brutal murders. Colin Campbell was sentenced to a further 24 years behind
bars, bringing the 32-year-old case to a close. In the early hours of Friday, January 7th 1928,
a police constable on his nightly beat along the Victoria Embankment, noticed in the dim
street light, a sudden rush of water surging over the road. Thinking it that it must be
a broken water main, he went to investigate, and found that the river’s bank had burst.
Watching the water rapidly spill over the street towards the houses opposite, and suddenly
realising the danger the inhabitants were in, he raised the alarm. As word of the emergency
spread, and the enormity of the situation dawned, fire engines raced along the increasingly
flooded roads, ringing their bells to wake people in their beds. Firemen and other volunteers
worked feverishly to pump water out of the homes, while sand bags were piled high
in areas still under threat. Spanning thirty miles of river, thousands of
homes from Hammersmith to Dartford were affected, along with the The Houses of Parliament, The
Tower of London and The Blackwall Tunnel. A large section of the parapet of the
embankment outside the Tate Gallery was demolished and scattered across the road.
Water poured into the gallery, washing the night watchman out of the building. It was even
reported that by the early hours of the morning, ships and boats in Dartford were forced
to the streets by the river’s surge. But rather than dwell on structural damage, I want
to pay particular attention to the human story. When the waters broke into the basement properties
of Ranelagh Gardens to the east of Putney Bridge, it wasn’t long before the home of a Mrs.
Watson, her 24-year-old daughter Irene, and 10-year-old son Billy, was completely under
water. That night, accompanying the Watsons, were Marjorie and Peter Frankeisse and
a cousin of the family named Mabel. When water began to pour into the house,
naturally a mad rush for escape followed. But when Miss Frankeisse found herself alone
in the relative safety of the flooded street, she returned to the house. Smashing a window
and cutting her arms and legs in the process, she managed to regain entry. Marjorie
Frankeisse saved all but two of the occupants. Irene Watson and her cousin were drowned. When
their bodies were later recovered, it appeared that before her attempted escape, Irene had put
on a large coat over her nightdress, which once soaked through, would have made it impossible to
escape. Two servant girls, 20-year-old Evelyn Hyde and 23-year-old Annie Moreton found themselves
trapped at River Court, a large house on the river bank at Upper Mall, Hammersmith. The
owners of the house were away at the time, so the young girls’ bodies were not found until
the butler returned after the water had receded. 25-year-old Frank Wiltshire entered the basement
of his house on the now non-existent Hinchcliffe Street, which was to the southeast of Lambeth
Bridge. He managed to help the other occupants escape the flood, but was unable to save himself.
The basement door swung shut from the force of the water, trapping him inside. A short distance away,
one Mr. Gable attempted to rescue 76-year-old Mrs. Quick from her basement on Causton
Street. As the water level rose to his neck, he recalled seeing the elderly woman on her
bed, which was now almost touching the ceiling. Mrs. Quick, lying on her bed, was pinned to
the ceiling of basement under the pressure of the water and drowned. Mr. Gable escaped, and
so did the daughter of the ill-fated woman, who was miraculously forced out of
a window as the water rushed in. As tragic as these events are, probably the
saddest incident to come of the 1928 flood concerns the Harding family at number 8
Grosvenor Road. This story is probably best described through Mr. Harding’s own retelling
which featured in many newspapers from that day. It was first reported that as many as
twenty-one people died in the flood of 1928, but the official number was 14. One of
those was 72-year-old Jane Hawley of Vincent Street, Westminster who did
not drown, but later died of shock. A final tale of heroism comes from the
Westminster Gazette, dated Monday January 9th. It tells the story of Miss Sarah Russell of
Hinchcliffe Street, who was the first to alert her neighbours to the incoming flood. Entering
one home she rescued one month-old twins. So what caused the Great Flood of
’28. Well, during Christmas 1927, heavy snow fell in the Cotswolds in central
England, where the Thames has its source. A sudden thaw which occurred on the New
Year's Eve, followed by unusually heavy rain, doubled the volume of water coming down the
river. The predicted tide at Swan Pier at 1:30am on January 7th 1928 was 21ft,
but this rose by an extra 6ft 1 inch, which led to the breaching of many areas of
the embankment from Hammersmith to Dartford. In 1923, family boating company, the Salter Bros.
build the The Marchioness, a 26-meter-long and 4 and-a-half-meter wide pleasure boat. At the time
of the second world war, the small vessel was requisitioned by the Thames Hospital Service
and took part in the rescue of British troops from Dunkirk. In 1978 she was purchased by Tidal
Cruises Ltd, underwent some refurbishments and continued her life as a pleasure boat on the
River Thames. This is the Embankment Pier at Charing Cross, just west of Waterloo Bridge.
It was here on August 20th 1989 that The Marchioness was moored in preparation for a late night
excursion to Tower Bridge, and then Greenwich, for the 26th birthday celebration of city banker,
Antonio de Vasconcellos. A party organised by his close friend, Jonathan Phang. At approximately 1am,
a party of 130 people began to board the vessel. At 1:20am the Marchioness left her
moorings and headed east, downstream. At around the same time and two miles upstream,
an 80-meter-log and 14-meter-wide dredger named Bowbelle began its journey, also heading east,
passing under Waterloo Bridge at 1:35am. By the time the much slower Marchioness had passed
under the central arch of Blackfriars Bridge, she was only half a mile in front of the Bowbelle.
The two vessels’ already close proximity continued to close between Blackfriars Bridge and Southwark
Bridge, but it was when The Marchioness was about to pass under Southwark Bridge that it began
to be affected by the heavy water being pushed ahead of the Bowbelle as the dredger overtook
another pleasure boat named the Hurlingham. At approximately 1:45am passengers on board The
Marchioness saw the dredger approaching before they were struck six meters from the stern. This
initial blow turned the Marchioness to port before it was struck again. This second blow caused it
to overturn. After the Bowbelle’s anchor tore off the upper floor of the Marchioness, sheer weight
and momentum pushed the lower section underwater. The Marchioness sank within a minute of the
first impact. All emergency services in the area were deployed and 79 of the 130 passengers
on board the pleasure boat were rescued. The number of dead pulled from the water that
night varied in reports, but the total number, including victims found 8 miles away days later,
was 51. Among them was Antonio de Vasconcellos, who had been celebrating his birthday, and the
Marchioness’s captain, 29-year-old Stephen Faldo. When the Marchioness was raised on the
afternoon of August 20th, 24 more bodies were found on board. It was immediately
decided that there would be no public enquiry and that the Marine Accident Investigation Branch
report would determine the cause of the collision. During the immediate post-mortem process, it
was decided that for the bodies not yet found, visual identification would be unreliable
and too traumatic for family members, therefore the hands would be removed in order to
take fingerprints. When more bodies were raised in the days to come, 25 pairs of hands were removed.
But this information didn’t emerge until 1992 when it was discovered that the families had
not been asked for permission before doing so. It was even reported that one family member had been
shown the wrong body, and then later the right one with the hands removed. Those hands were later
returned to the family with a letter of apology. When the Marine Accident Investigation Branch
report was made, it concluded that the collision was caused by both captains’ failure to
keep a sufficient look-out on both vessels. The Bowbelle, being a dredger, had collected
sand and gravel from the river bed. The sediment, which was piled high at the front of
the boat, severely impeded visibility at the bow, leaving a blind-spot of around 400 meters, and making it
impossible for the crew to see the Marchioness. Indeed, it came to light that the captain
of the Bowbelle, Douglas Henderson, wasn’t immediately aware that
the collision had taken place, and did not assist in the rescue. On the part of
the Marchioness, it was said that captain Stephen Faldo, would not have been able to hear radio
warnings over the loud music playing on board, making him equally unaware. However, the families
of the victims criticised the report for not including testimonies from survivors. The reason
for this was never made clear, but because many of them had been drinking that evening, their
recollections may have been deemed unreliable. In the days following the disaster, there
were conflicting estimates of the number of people on board, and some tabloids were
unsympathetic to the victims in their reporting, suggesting that the party members were all very
rich young people, drinking and taking drugs. The inquest into the victims’ deaths which was opened
and adjourned on the day after the accident, did not proceed until April 23rd 1990, but this
was amidst calls for Captain Douglas Henderson of the Bowbelle to face prosecution. After
only three days the inquest was halted again, when it was decided by the Director of Public
Prosecutions, Allan Green, that Henderson should face charges under the Merchant Shipping Act of
1988. But in 1991 Henderson was acquitted of any wrong doing after two juries failed to reach
a verdict. Again, failure to include important witness statements in the proceedings was blamed
by the families for the unsatisfactory outcome. The inquest into the cause of the
accident resumed four years later, taking place in March and April of 1995. At
this stage Douglas Henderson’s professionalism was called into question when it was proved he
had been drinking on the day of the disaster. However, it was deemed that any alcohol would
have left his system by the time of the collision. In summing up, new coroner John Burton instructed
the jury that a verdict of unlawful killing could not be applied to anyone who
had already been cleared by a court. To Burton’s frustration, the jury returned a
verdict of unlawful killing regardless, but as no one could be named as personally responsible,
the verdict did not carry a punishment. Following the 1997 election which saw the Labour
Party brought into power, a petitioned was sent to John Prescott, Secretary of State for Transport
and Deputy Prime Minister, asking for another inquest. He agreed, but the outcome was much the
same; the cause of the collision was due to poor lookout on both vessels. As no single person
could be blamed for the accident, it was advised that a charge of manslaughter, which was the
outcome the victims’ families had hoped for, was likely to fail. Compensation was eventually
awarded to many of the victims’ families, but after funeral and legal costs, most were left
with very little. One family, who were reported to have been awarded £45,000 pounds, was left with
£312 after these costs were met. In September 1989 a memorial stone inscribed with the names of
the victims was unveiled at Southwark Cathedral, 120 meters from the site of the disaster. The
Bowbelle was sold in 1992 to a maritime company in Saint Vincent and the Grenadines,
then to a Portuguese company in 1996. That same year, the Bowbelle sank off the coast
of Madeira, taking one crew member with her.
