Welcome to Murder Mile.

Today, I'm standing outside the 49 Old Compton Street in Soho W1.

Directly opposite the unsolved killing of Dutch Leia,

six doors west of the bombing of the Admiral Duncan pub,

and three doors east of the not-so-tragic demise of the cruel vulture of Soho.

Coming soon to murder mile.

At 49 Old Compton Street currently stands a four-story red brick bronstrosity,

with six crappy flats above, housing as witnessed a mile tall,

one of the rudest assholes in the whole of Soho.

And on the ground floor stands a shop, which could be open, closed or empty,

as with every new tenant coming up with a genius idea to sell just one item,

whether quassons, hand-cut crisps or hummus. They all appear shocked when their entrepreneurial

dreams shuts, having not had a single customer.

Back in 1894, this building was a modestly priced hotel called Blondells.

Set over four floors, with ten rooms per level, a bathroom per floor and a restaurant on the ground.

Blondales became a home from home for many businessmen, travellers, and even clergymen from all corners of the world.

On the 15th of September 1894, being partway through a world tour to spread the word of God,

Father Louis Casares, a portly elderly priest had booked a room for himself and his faithful assistant Eugene.

But growing depressed at his failing health,

and as a tour took his toll,

here the priest would take his own life.

My name is Michael.

...