Welcome to Murder Mile.

Today, I'm standing outside of the Royal Automobile Club at 89 Palmal S.W. 1.

Two streets east of the death of David West by his son.

Two streets northeast of Godretral of Burani, banging on the gates of Buckingham Palace.

Two streets south of the Blackout Ripper's Assault on Greta Haywood,

and three streets east of the sweet-faced killer,

who famously sold powdered dessert.

Coming soon to Murder Mile.

Hailed as one of London's best private members clubs, the RAC Club is an impressive four-story

mansion made out of Portland Stone and lined with Doric columns, like a lost relic of the Roman Empire.

Founded in 1897, it houses 80 luxury bedrooms, seven banquet suites, three restaurants,

a marble-line swimming pool, a billiards room and a Turkish bath.

With all the opulence of a billionaire's boudoir, mere hoipolloy, like you or I, would never be allowed to dirty its decor, as its membership is strict and vapid.

To enter, you have to be wealthy, you have to be a name, and until 1998 you had to be a man.

To pamper these flexible legends of tax law limbo and lovers of the offshore loophole,

the RAC Club employs 200 staff, comprising of chefs, butlers, sommeliers, valets and chambermates.

Most commute in, but a tiny proportion live on site in small private rooms on a section exclusively for staff.

In the summer of 1972, Room 519 was home to Sarah Gibson, the club's living assistant

housekeeper.

Fresh from the country, she was excited to undertake such a prestigious job. She worked hard, she kept out of trouble,

and she was well liked by friends, family, club members and colleagues. But across the night

of Sunday the 2nd to Monday the 3rd of July, 1972.

...