A midsummer murder.

Thank you to everyone who responded to last week’s poll; it was really helpful. An idea was born from it: The Secret Norwich magazine. So I’m afraid I have to run a new poll.

A monthly magazine, around 20-24 pages (printed on 100% recycled paper), with a small subscription fee to keep the lights on and cover postage. I’ll fill it with stories, self-guided tours, interviews, pictures, puzzles and other curiosities.

Is this something you might subscribe to?

Alright?

Your participation in my polls is always very appreciated, and as chance would have it, polls are a big feature of this week’s story. It includes perhaps Norwich’s most famous poll (fine, technically it’s a petition, but please allow me this tenuous link).

Today, we take a collective step inside The Murderers pub on Timberhill. Pint, anyone?

The first thing to know about The Murderers is that it’s not actually called The Murderers at all. Its trading name is the Gardeners Arms.

It’s why, if you ever manage to drag yourself far enough up Timberhill, you’ll see a different name and picture on the other side of the hanging sign. Please accept this incredibly grainy image as proof:

The Murderers is a stage name. It’s sort of like how Helen Mirren is actually called Ilyena Mironoff, or Vin Diesel’s real name is Mark Vincent. Just as it would be fascetious to refer to these actors by their real names, so too would it be a bit uppety to suggest meeting at the Gardeners Arms. Nobody calls it that, apart from, perhaps, its mother.

There’s a reason it’s known across the city as The Murderers, and it’s not just because of the amount of murder-related paraphernalia that lines its walls.

It was, as you’ve probably guessed by now, the site of a murder.

Let’s go back to June of 1895. The National Trust has just been formed. You can go and see an Oscar Wilde play in London for the first time, and if you break a bone on the tube, you can finally get an X-ray.

Things are looking up in England. But not for a 21-year-old Norfolk girl called Mildred Wilby.

[Fair warning: This is an interesting story, but ultimately a tragic tale of domestic violence. It won’t be for everyone.]

Setting the scene.

Mildred Wilby was the daughter of the landlady at the Gardeners Arms, Maria Wilby.

Maria used to run the pub with her husband, Henry, but on 5th January, 1895, he died of a heart attack, which really set the tone for that year. Mildred had moved into the pub to help her Mum.

Mildred had a husband, Frank Miles. Frank had done some time in the forces as a cavalryman, including a stint in India during the swinging 80s, but worked in a brewery by the time these famous events unfolded. Their marriage was tumultuous, and soon after Mildred moved into the pub, the couple separated.

The breakup between Mildred and Frank was not one of those mature, amicable ones. It was frosty, and most of that frost was coming from Frank’s side. Such was his bitterness that he had started to spread rumours that Mildred was working as a prostitute.

These rumours gained so much traction that, even in some modern-day accounts of this story, Mildred is still described as a lady of the night.

So, we have a grieving widow, a doting daughter, and a bitter husband spreading lies. What could possibly go wrong?

The murder.

The murder itself took place in early June of 1895. Frank had seen Mildred walking into the pub with another man (the audacity), and an argument ensued. Allegedly, he threw a piece of pottery at her that night, screaming, “God strike me blind, I’ll be the death of you in the morning.”

And so he was.

The next day, he returned to the pub armed with a bung picker, which was an iron tool used by brewers. After a brief argument, he bludgeoned her in the head with the sharp end.

It was four days before Mildred finally succumbed to her injuries. She died on their third wedding anniversary.

After striking her, Frank walked out of the pub, weapon still in hand, and into the police station by the castle. He turned in the weapon and explained what had happened. And so his trial began.

The most curious of trials.

As was customary for someone found guilty of murder back in 1895, Frank Miles was originally sentenced to death by hanging for his crime.

The case ought to have been unambiguous. But Frank’s mother had other ideas.

She claimed that mercy ought to be shown to Frank for two reasons:

1) Frank had suffered heatstroke. Yes, really. Heatstroke was offered as a reason why he might’ve been driven to rage.

2) Frank had been strongly provoked. His wife was with another man, after all. And she was probably a prostitute.

Surely, his mother claimed, he had no choice but to murder Mildred.

A petition was created in support of Frank, and it was signed by 9,000 people in Norwich and an additional 3,000 in Southampton (where Frank was originally from). According to the census, that would’ve been more than 10% of Norwich’s population at the time.

The judge had no choice but to listen to such a loud public outcry. Frank Miles’ death sentence was revoked, and he was given life imprisonment instead. Democracy in action.

How does this story end?

Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that Frank Miles didn’t exactly live happily ever after. He died 10 years later in Parkhurst prison.

As for the Gardeners Arms, it quickly became known as The Murderers in the wake of the events of 1895.

Maria - who lost her husband and her daughter in the space of six months - ran the pub for another five months before handing it over to Edward Wickham in November of that year. She died in 1906, aged 59, on Rupert Street near Unthank Road.

She and her husband, Henry, had nine children in total. Whilst most died quite young, Gertrude Wilby lived until 1961.

There were several sources used to put this newsletter together, but by far the most referenced is The Murderers’ official website. Lots of credit should go to its appropriately named landlord, Phil Cutter, who, aside from serving excellent beer, has made it his mission to curate the pub's history during his tenure.

I don’t wear a cap, but if I did, I would also have to doff it to this video created by BBC’s Inside Out, which, amongst other things, features some of the pub staff dressed in Victorian garb in a dramatic recreation of the events. It’s well worth a watch.

Not the cheeriest of newsletters, but heck, they can’t all be toilet-based.

See you next time,

Secret Norwich