Welcome to Murder Mile.

Today, I'm standing on Darblay Street in Soho W-1.

One road north of the second killing by the Blackout Ripper.

One street west of the pawn robbery by the Randy Canadian Sailor.

A few doors up from the racist attack on Brian Robinson

and the same street as the gentle garotta, coming

soon to murder mile.

At 4 Dabble Street, on the ground floor of a four-story Georgian terrace currently stands

Crem, a cookie shop.

Only these are not those nasty British biscuit-like splats, which were as flat as roadkill,

as hard as tarmac, and blessed with one flavour, sickly sweet.

These are big fat, gooey cookies, thick like muffins and soft like pillows, which melt

in the mouth and make you wish the diets didn't exist.

Mmm, yummy.

Being popular, you'll often see long lines of eager eyes keen to peep through this curved window

to drawl over these gorgeous treats created within.

And yet it's hard to stomach the fact that such an abhorrent and brutal crime could ever have been committed, where such sumptuous

cookies are lovingly baked.

But back in 1856, this was a prosperous tobacconist shop, ran by a mother of three, Sarah

Boosfield.

She worked long hours to support her three children, and many said also her husband, William.

A pointless little man who dreamed of fame, rather than fulfilling his responsibility as a father and a husband. But what could have driven this quiet little dreamer to slaughter his entire family?

...