Mike, not his real name, had all the euphoria of a new skipper; he’d asked if I’d look at his engine, which was giving him some trouble but couldn’t resist showing off his new boat. “Only cost me seven grand - a bargain!”

It certainly was a bargain but I knew the history of this boat, the Nevando. Irish Jim had bought it, about a decade ago, for a thousand pounds, cheaply bought, for it had only recently been dragged up from the depths of the Worcester and Birmingham. “We’re taking it to Stoke.” Mike explained, I wished him luck, sincerely, doubting it would ever reach Stoke and, recalling uneasily that the most famous Captain to come from Stoke-on-Trent was Edward J. Smith of the Titanic, but I dismissed my fears as undue pessimism and asked “Have you had it surveyed?” “Nah—four hundred quid for the crane, can’t afford it.” I saw Mike three days later, when he pulled up beside me in his van with a face bent on murder. “Boat sank in Selly Oak. Seven grand - gone! What a rip off!”

His language, appropriate to his dismay, was a good deal more colourful and the murderous look in his face made me feel uncomfortable. Later, I heard, he stormed the snug of The Crown pub and vented his wrath with the same colourful language he described the sinking to me minutes before, which, so I was later told, resulted in Irish Jim ‘pontificating and looking sheepish,’ while Mike, ejected from the pub remained ‘an extremely angry man outside.’

The chain of ownership was complicated. Irish Jim had lived on the Nevando for several years, the boat was static, remaining at Orchard moorings in Alvechurch for the best part of a decade. Then the landowner decided property development was more lucrative than narrowboats and promptly ejected the boats from his land. Irish Jim (so called for his work in the troubles as a double agent identifying IRA sympathizers for British, or so the legend goes) applied for, and was granted an alms house by the parish council. I was moored beside the Nevando for some time and met the first, unfortunate, new owner, a young lad, called Bill, albeit only once. He’d purchased the Nevando from Irish John for £10,000, no doubt as a project boat with a view for selling it on as a profit. Realizing the Nevando was a hopeless case, the hull was pitted, holed, and hadn’t seen a lick of Bitumen in years, he then sold it on to Mike for £7000, no doubt rueing his three grand loss; the third sale of the boat within six months.

When I asked Liz Sollars, CRT officer for the Midlands, about the wreck she did not attempt to keep the exasperation from her voice but remained tight lipped, “It will all come out in the wash.” Due process had not been followed. Mike had bought, and sunk the boat, without being registered as the new owner, a real headache for Liz. A captain who loses their ship must expect a court martial. In this instance I can only feel sorry for Bill and Mike, who inherited Nevando, and its insuperable problems from Irish Jim. Yes; they should have had the boat surveyed before full purchase, yes, they were naive and cutting corners, and if anything it serves as a salutary lesson in the value of a survey.

For me, the real villain of the piece is Irish Jim. He knew the hull was damaged, perhaps beyond repair. He had his alms house. He had his pension. There was a marina just two hundred yards away from his mooring where he could easily have taken the Nevando and sold it for scrap, and, with rising steel prices, would still have made a profit on his £1000,even for scrap value. Motivated by greed he sold that death trap of a boat for maximum profit to buyers, naïve and greedy, but in doing so, endangered lives. What good fortune that the Nevando sank in Selly Oak. It was January, the water was below freezing and, with the two miles of Wast Hill tunnel in-between, I dread to think what would have happened if she foundered there.

A few days later I paid a visit to Selly Oak, expecting to see the wreck of the Nevando, waterlogged, listing and abandoned but was surprised to find her, engine thumping, the bilges spewing water, and Mike aboard, fiddling with the wiring. “I’ve had to re-float her several times. Kids keep coming along cutting the wiring and she sinks again.” The trouble with sinking, is one cannot chose where to sink and may end up in a less than salubrious district. “I’m still gonna get her to Stoke,” Mike elaborated, “Well, I’ve got to.”

I’m not sure whether to put this down to determination or desperation. Mike, intending to live-aboard this vessel, and having no-where else to live other than his van, or at least, as far as I could tell, wasn’t going to give up on his investment easily. I at least admired his optimism. Buy cheap, buy twice, and it never does to cut corners with boats, especially if you intend to make them your home. With narrowboats in such demand at present, I fear stories like Mike’s may become increasingly common. My only hope is that this tale of the wreck of the Nevando serves as a salutary tale. Buyers Beware.

A couple of weeks later, I received a brief message from Tina, Mike’s partner which read simply; ‘We made it to Stoke.’ A happy ending, I hope, and given the state of the Nevando, I hoped it had been hauled up onto a hard standing, like an in-movable, beached whale; Never again to travel but never again to sink

Picking Sides

A bright, blue-sky day in November, I happened upon a clutch of banner wielding, trumpet tooting crowds. On a whim I had decided to see for myself the protest march on the CRT’s head office in Birmingham. Initially my feelings were mixed; true the rise in licence fee was annoying; for the first time ever I’d had to pay my boat licence in two parts, paying the full annual in one go had become impossible for me; yet at the same time, I wondered if marching on the CRT was the right course of action as, the price hike was, in my view, down to central government cutting all funding to what, was an important, if not vital part of national infrastructure.

However, bitter experience, and being a liveaboard, skewed my impartiality, it was impossible not to be biased. The last time I was in Birmingham, was February, I was moored there aboard my own boat, Ella, and, was to be one of the last people there to take advantage of the full fortnight in the city centre. Even while moored there, notices were going up about ‘limiting the inner city moorings to 48 hours. I’d also seen gentrification; Lichfield Basin in Stourport, excellent moorings but closed off to all boats since the early 21st century; penthouse developers feeling that while ‘life was better by water’ such water should not be encumbered by boats - heaven forbid! And along the towpath, new signs announcing, ‘Attention Dog Owners, Please pick up after your dog’ followed by the irritatingly twee, ‘Attention Dogs; Grr, Bark, Woof.’ Surely responsible owners know to pick up after their furry chums and irresponsible owners would hardly be swayed by this whimsy.

Any boater who uses the system will have their own horror stories; interminable stoppages, locked Bin yards and Elsan points and now we were faced with a 25% rise in all licences with an extra surcharge for continuous cruisers.

As we waited for more arrivals to swell our dwindling band, I met an old friend of mine whom I’d not seen in nearly a year. Over a pint of Pale Ale, he told me he was moored on my old stomping ground on the Worcester and Birmingham, telling horror stories of landslides at Shortwood Tunnel and yet another stoppage at Tardebigge.

It did not take much convincing for me to seize a banner, helpfully distributed by the Bargee and Travellers Association. So much of impartiality.

Compelling Arguments

I’ve a confession to make; I’m a continuous moorer. In my four and a half years on the boat I’ve spent 15 months in boatyards and marinas, and only 15 months outside of Worcestershire. No matter, I was still a liveaboard and while, by virtue of having a home mooring, I would not be subject to the surcharge of 25% increase over five years, I was still acutely aware of the increase to my own licence.

The Narrowboaters, Bargees and Travellers association argued that the surcharge would only generate 0.6% of CRT profits, whilst disproportionately affecting a minority of boat owners. CRT’s own figures bear this out. In their March 2022 survey of 9530 boaters, 79% had a home mooring, while under a third of licence holders, 21%, did not.

From my own experience too, I’ve observed that much of the strain on the system comes from people with less vested interest. Not that I wish to make generalizations, because I’ve seen many a responsible skipper of a hire or ‘shiny’ boat but I have seen irresponsible weekend skippers too, dropping paddles, leaving litter, speeding to complete a circuit. I’ve also experienced exploitation personally from one, very well-known hire company, which took me on as casual labour, boat-blacking. I worked 13 hours over 3 days and was not paid, despite repeated attempts at asking for payment. Businesses, like hire firms, I would venture are far more responsible for wear and tear on the system and one wonders whether a surcharge would be better deployed there.

Another solution; posited by none other than David Suchet at the IWA’s annual general meeting, (which I gate-crashed) was passing on the costs to towpath users; such as licencing cyclists, or installing secure donation boxes at various points on the system. The view of the IWA however was that with 4,700 miles it would be almost impossible to police such a task of licencing cyclists, without being prohibitively expensive, and that to rely on goodwill of towpath users alone would be inadequate, especially during a ‘cost-of-living crisis.’

My own view is that the waterways should never have been made into a Charitable case, though this may be covered by hearing tales from the old timers about how much better things were in the days of British Waterways. It’s no surprise that the CRT came into being during David Cameron’s first term as P.M. seeing as Tory party policy is based on Wildean principles of cynicism; ‘Knowing the cost of everything and the value of nothing.’ Besides, had they not have abdicated responsibility for the waterways, they wouldn’t be able to reap the fortunes of all those wonderful profits made by private water companies for pouring effluence into our waters. Ultimately it’s a political problem requiring a political solution but the CRT picking on the poorest, often most vulnerable group on the waters is a far cry from what anyone expects of a ‘charity.’

On the March

It had been twenty years since I’d protested; that had been in Birmingham too. In 2003 I marched against the Iraq war along some of the same streets I was marching now. We numbered over a thousand but I recall that protest as being a column of quiet, dignified silence, placards declaring ‘Not in our name’ doing the talking. This time we were a tenth of that number; just over a hundred, but by God, we made up for it with noise.

We did not have the strength of numbers for quiet dignity but with the loss of self-consciousness that comes with living for long period in isolation we made a loud, and colourful mob. One lady, whose Father and Grandfather had been coal-carriers on the cut, told me she’d attended protests throughout her life and throughout Europe; “I’ve been arrested for protesting in three countries,” she told me with pride.

This was an extraordinary demonstration, boaters had come from all over the country; I spoke with people who had come from the K&A, Lincolnshire, and London. Many the very image of the Continuous Cruiser, tough, weather beaten, dreadlocked, dressed for comfort, not style, every inch of them exuding the rugged pioneer spirit that comes with frontier living; enough to put the fear of God or the disdain of squires looking to empty their wallets in the boutiques and bistros of a Black Friday weekend.

Call: “From the Med to the Lea!”
Response: “One licence, one fee!”
Call “Boats are homes!”
Response: “Scrap the Surcharge.”
Call “1,2,3,4-
Response “Where are we supposed to moor?”
Call “5,6,7,8”
Response “We just want to navigate!”

Not everyone was indifferent or disdainful. Along the way many bank dwellers smiled on us, a couple of times onlookers stopped and offered us fist bumps in solidarity and on the flanks of our column, leaflets were distributed.

Reaching the foot of Richard Parry’s office, one red-headed lady really vented; “Come down here, Parry you b*****d, I’ll stick this placard where the sun shines!”

Even I, with previous form for penning satirical snatches and ditties couldn’t resist making up my own; “Parry is a Dick, Parry is Dick, Richard Parry, Richard Parry, Parry is a Dick, oi!”

We were a column of merry-pranksters, come to freak-out the norms, come to show that we were still here and would be heard. What little police presence there was, seemed more bemused than threatened by this confederation of angry hippies, new agers, travellers and bohemians. Compared to most protests (and there’ve been a lot lately) the tone here was more mischief than violence, angry but still at heart, good-natured, as most boaters are.

The Flotilla and Continuing the Fight

At the water’s edge, beneath Parry’s office, boats made doughnut wakes at Ozell’s street loop, displaying their banners. I especially recall a beautiful old tug; at its bow a man with a Methuselah beard and a roll up. ‘One licence one price.’

The March concluded at Cambrian Wharf where we were addressed by the bigwigs of the Narrowboaters, Bargee and Travellers association. As I was straining to listen, some-one in the crowd approached me; “You a boater? Where did you come from?”
I told him. “Great, you’re the first person I’ve met from that port - here” - he handed me a wad of flyers; “Distribute ‘em around your town will you?” Gleefully, I agreed.
Then, gradually, we dispersed, handed in our placards and went to the pub.

News Blackout?

The community of Continuous Cruisers is probably the smallest single community in the country. True there had been plenty of photographers there, yet, when I started scanning the News there was little to no-reportage on the march. A brief article on the BBC Midlands website, but very little else, though what could one-expect in an age of conflict Israel versus Palestine grabbing the headlines. “Never mind,” I reassured my companion “Still early days yet, I’ll bet the Birmingham Mail ‘ll cover it.”

A day later an article did appear in the Birmingham Mail; “We sold our three bedroomed home to live on a narrowboat.” I rolled my eyes; how many times have I read articles about middle-class people selling up and taking to the water. Scanning it I found very little different from this type of story. “…sold their three bedroomed house in Sussex…” The couple in question were notable only by their absence on the march, but then having just sold a three bedroomed house, down south, I doubted they would be much affected by the price rises. Perhaps this is the shape of things to come, these of the new boaters being the kind that the CRT appeal to; genteel, with kids, moneyed, don’t-make-a-fuss, gentrified types. Not that swarm of passionate, raggle-taggled water gypies. Who knows, when the next issue of Waterways World, or some-such publication may run a paragraph on it.

For what it’s worth then, here is my account. From one who was there. From one who cares.

AN INTERESTING TAKE ON THIS FROM Richard Vobes on YouTUBE...watch now....

Mrs. Morris’ Ordeal

Ernest Spencer owed her £5. For a housewife in Nechells, inner city Birmingham, it was no mean sum; in 1958, £5 was approximately £250 in today’s terms, there was just one catch; she would have to collect it from the narrowboat, ‘Lady Luck’ moored at Tardebigge.

Margaret Ann Morris (51), who lived in Trevor Street, Nechells, had known Ernest Spencer and his wife, Edith, for 32 years. They had been more than friends and neighbours - she and Ernest had lived together for a year; the Spencer’s marriage was far from harmonious. Ernest Spencer, a thick set, squat, heavily built man, had just sold his share of a painting and decorating business to his brother, George, who lived in Saltley, bought an old working boat and, with his wife, Edith, had spent these last ten months converting it into a houseboat.

Nechells in 1958, was a sooty, grimy, unhealthy place. The fiver notwithstanding, Margaret was only too keen for a quick drive into the country, to reclaim her debt and escape the urban squalor for a while. Ernest, after all, was a successful painter and decorator, he must have had some buccaneering flair to him; not many people would choose to renovate and live on an old working boat in 1958, no matter how bad the housing in the blitzed city centre.

Ernest collected her, in his car, from Aston, Church Street, and drove her back to The Lady Luck, moored, with ten other boats, at Tardebigge New Wharf. He was agitated, on edge, not his usual self. At 2:30p.m on Wednesday 29th January 1958, Mrs Morris, stepped aboard the ‘Lady Luck.’ It was deathly quiet but for the puff and grunt of steam engines heaving up the Lickey incline and the hollow shrill of their whistles, echoing around the hills.

The Lady Luck was tidy, everything in order, except forward, in the enclosed well deck, which was ‘stuffed up’ with old coats and a wardrobe shoved carelessly into a corner. Ernest’s eyes were wild, as were his actions, repeatedly he punched himself in the face, babbling; “I’ve done something I’ve meant to do for 32 years,” then he went to the galley, pulled out a kitchen knife from a drawer, and played with it momentarily, before placing it back. “I’ve bought you to the boat,” he explained to Mrs Morris, “...to do you in.”

“Where’s Edith?” Mrs. Morris asked. “At her son’s, in Kingstanding,” was the reply. It was a lie. Behind the wardrobe, beneath a mackintosh and an old brown coat, lay Mrs. Edith Spencer. She’d been dead at least three hours.

Tardebigge, July, 2021

The story of the Lady Luck by came to me by accident. Watching an old Pathé Newsreel, entitled, ‘Is murder increasing?’ there was an eight second segment, with a shot of the new wharf, and, what looked like a sound, comfortable boat of approximately seventy foot. Sixty years on I recognized the place; the serrated rooftops of the boatyard, the Georgian façade of, what was, the Plymouth Arms, while a plummy voice intoned “Quite lately, on a canal houseboat near Redditch, a woman was found killed...”

I’d spent my first winter aboard my own boat in Tardebigge. I’d a nose for local folk-lore and macabre history, yet had never heard about the Lady Luck, why? Surely a swarm of journalists would have made an impression in such a back-water, something to remember, but, whoever I asked, always said they were ‘too young’ or ‘my parents would have remembered but they’re dead,’ no-one could recall the Spencer’s or their narrowboat, Lady Luck.

My first call was to Redditch Library and a trawl through back copies of the Redditch Indicator. There it was, ‘February 1958’ the case of the Lady Luck made front page news. “Man Strangles Wife.” And some of the detail became clear to me. Unfortunately, the paper had been damaged, and the vital details, involving the role of Mrs. Margaret Morris, had been destroyed. So, while moored in Tardebigge, I asked around in Alestones, ‘What d’ y’ know about the Lady Luck?’ Every face was a blank. On Sunday mornings I haunted the churchyard, interrogating parishioners as they left Sunday worship, the nearest I got to any first hand sources was; “I was just a child; I don’t remember.” A wall of silence; Tarbebigge did not want to remember.

Ernest and Edith Spencer

Almost exactly ten years before the Lady Luck another, better known boat, was berthed in exactly the same spot. Tom Rolt and his second wife, Sonia, moored up Cressy and remained there throughout the Second World War. It was there they met Robert Aikman and founded British Waterways. Tom Rolt, as I so often tell anyone who will listen, was the father of all modern liveaboards, and, eleven years later, another boat moored there, an ex-working boat, sides painted black and green, a plywood canopy cast over its hold, which once transported fruits from the orchards of Burcott or fuel from black country, transformed into domesticity, with six windows either side, and two portholes, peering from an enclosed well-deck, like eyes.

Ernest Spencer, born in 1906, must have been a pioneer. He was a painter, decorator, builder, by trade and, after the Second World War, can’t have been in want of work. According to his brother, George Spencer, he sold his share of their joint painting and decorating business and ‘retired’ at the age of 51, and, like many contemporary narrowboaters, must have forsaken finance, for the dream of freedom aboard a boat, after all, 51, was a young age to retire in 1958.

For Edith, however, there is little information. Records show she was born in Yorkshire in 1905 and must have drifted down to Birmingham; she married Ernest Alfred Spencer in the 1920’s. Her life would, most likely, been one of domestic drudgery.

Questioned by the Coroner their son, Edward Albert Spencer, admitted, “There had been troubles.” Saying Ernest had, “left her (Edith) for a time but were back together by September, (1957).” Edward Spencer also testified, “I saw them three weeks ago.” December, 1957, “...they seemed very well.” Tellingly, he added they were “...falsely happy.”

Ernest and Edith, had been aboard the Lady Luck for ten months, they must have moved aboard around about March, 1957, and, if their marriage was in a poor state, with Ernest having once lived in sin with Mrs. Morris, perhaps they thought a joint project, like renovating a narrowboat, would bring them together. Clearly it didn’t.

Murder

Even today Tardebigge is a lonely place to moor. The nearest shop is three miles away and winter there, with long, cold, nights and little distraction is hard enough now, let alone 63 years ago. For Edith, cooped up in a small cabin, further confined by the extremities of winter (metrological reports show 20 days of snow in the Midlands in November alone) with a husband who had recently, and blatantly, been un-faithful to her, was to prove disastrous.

Any couple on a narrowboat will tell you that arguments are not uncommon. A mix of claustrophobia, sharing a small space, inevitably leads to flair ups; in this case it proved tragic. No-one knows exactly what happened when Edith died. Most likely a full blown row erupted between them, careless or hurtful words exchanged. Ernest, in a fury, throttled Edith.

To die by strangulation is a particularly cruel, intimate death. The Pathologist, Professor J.M. Webster found bruising on the left and right neck muscles, her tongue had been forced upwards and there were small haemorrhages in her voice box, temple and eyes, consistent, he testified, to manual strangulation from the front. Ernest would have looked his wife in the eyes as he squeezed the life out of her. It would have taken up to two minutes for life to be extinguished, even under British Law today, such a protracted attack would stand as an act of premeditation. He could have stopped but Ernest saw it through.

With his wife’s body at his feet he then fetched a length of cord and knotted it around the dead woman’s neck, to make certain of her demise, then, hidden her body behind the wardrobe, covered it in old coats then, taking care to lock the boat, climbed into his car and drove to Nechells in search of his erstwhile lover, Mrs. Morris.

Mrs. Morris’ Testimony

District coroner, Mr. B.G.Evers, informed Mrs. Morris, somewhat coyly, that she “need not give evidence that may incriminate her.” She was, after all, a married woman, but she and Spencer had been living together for a year, and implications of sexual assault are chilling.

Mrs. Morris was held, against her will aboard the Lady Luck for about 28 hours, arriving there at 2:30pm, the Wednesday of Edith’s murder. The exchanges with the coroner were reported in full. “Did you stay the night there?” Asked the coroner, “Yes, he made me stay.” “When did you leave the boat?” “About 6:30pm the following day.” “Did he turn you out?” “No. I pleaded with him to let me go.” “Did he threaten to strangle you, or anything of that sort?” “Yes.” “Did he attempt it?” “No.” “Did he say anything about his wife then?” “Well, he said ‘I have done something I have been waiting to do for 32 years.’” “Did he indicate what that was?” “He put up his hands and said ‘with these.’” “When you say he was ‘different’ can you give any indication as to his state of mind?” “Well, his eyes looked wild and he was walking up and down and knocking his head with his hands.” “What did he tell you to do when people were walking along the towpath?” “Hide.” “And in order to get away from him...did you, in fact, have to promise you would return next day?” “Yes.” “That was in fact, a trick?” “Yes.” “You had no intention of returning the next day?” “No.”

Placated by this promise, Spencer drove Mrs. Morris back to Trevor Street, Nechells, she added further disturbing details. “He (Spencer) had always said he would do harm to his wife. He had threatened to do so on previous occasions and I did not think this was more serious than the others.” “After you left him in August you did not return to him?” “No.”
“You returned to your husband to whom you told the whole story?” “That is right.”

End Game

On Thursday, 30th of January, Ernest spent a long night, alone, aboard the ‘Lady Luck,’ the enormity of his actions sinking in. The homicide act, which limited the number of capital crimes, had been passed one year previously, and, while uxoricide no longer carried a statutory death sentence the prospect of an ignominious end on the gallows at Winson Green must have been on his mind along with the dawning realization that his lover, Mrs. Morris, reconciled with her husband, would not return to him.

Un-able to sleep he instead began writing a series of notes, the longest of which ran to several pages and was addressed to his Brother, George Spencer of Chartist Road, Saltley. On Friday he went straight to the nearest post office, located in Aston Fields, three miles away. There, he registered his letter and sent a telegram to his son, Edward, telling him to go immediately to his Uncle’s house. George’s boat, a small, cruiser type, painted red and white was moored just in front of the Lady Luck, George would know where to find him; to make sure, he used the telephone in canal inspector’s office to call his Brother that Friday evening.

To those who saw him that day, they claimed he “appeared quite normal.” His communique’s sent, he returned to the boat, unable to spend one more night there, alone with his thoughts and the corpse of the woman he’d throttled, still hidden beneath old coats behind the wardrobe. He locked the door from the inside, took a spoon, a glass of water, then a box of aspirins, poured the pills on to a sideboard and proceeded to crush them into a fine white powder. He then spooned it into the glass and drank it down. His final sensations would have been dizziness, shortness of breath, palpitations, maybe even hallucinations before, finally, suffering chest pains as he struggled to breathe. Collapsing forward, he struck his nose on the sideboard, causing a small abrasion. Ernest Spencer, like his victim hidden behind the wardrobe, died of asphyxiation.

Discovery

At 1:45p.m, Saturday, four police officers, led by Det. Inspector G.J. Davies of Bromsgrove and G.V Sedgwick of Redditch arrived at Tardebigge New Wharf by car, having been alerted by George Spencer. Police Constable Smith of Aston Fields described how they found the key to the boat, under a stone, near the stern entrance, and then forced the latch by reaching through the Kitchen window. On entering they were assailed by what was described as a guard dog, which had to be driven into another part of the boat. The door to the front compartment had been jammed shut, but, with some effort they heaved it open to discover Ernest, fully clothed, lying face down, and dead on the floor, followed by Edith behind the wardrobe. Ernest Spencer had cheated justice.

The bodies were removed to Bromsgrove mortuary where Professor Webster carried out an autopsy. On Sunday, relatives from Saltley, probably the brother, George, formally identified the bodies as that of Ernest and Edith Spencer. Next Wednesday, a week after Edith’s murder, a ninety minute inquest was held at Bromsgrove magistrate’s court.

The Final Insult

At the inquest the Coroner advised the jury that there were three possibilities: That Mrs Spencer had died accidently as the result of ‘rough and tumble.’ That Mrs. Spencer had provoked her husband, verbal provocation would have been enough, hence a verdict of
manslaughter or that she had been wilfully murdered.

Although the details of the notes left by Spencer and the letter sent to his brother were not made available to the press, one, particularly nasty detail, in what today’s parlance would be called ‘victim blaming,’ came out. In one of the notes Spencer claimed his wife came at him threatening to ‘scratch his eyes out.’ However, he was a powerfully built man - physically Edith would have been no match for him, borne out the Pathologists evidence. “Were there any marks on him that may have been caused by scratching?” “I could not see any which may have been caused by another party. There was a tiny abrasion on the second right knuckle but it did not seem to be anything that had been scratched out of him at all.”

Happily, the jury returned a verdict of wilful murder, despite Mrs. Morris’ testimony that he ‘was not in his right mind,’ his actions, writing to his Son and Brother, coolly using the canal inspectors telephone, securing the boat, all pointed to him being responsible for his actions.

On Friday, 7th February, exactly a week after his suicide, the bodies of Ernest and Edith Spencer were buried in an unmarked grave in St. Bartholomew’s, Tardebigge a graveside service conducted by the Rev. R.W. Underhill.

Remember Edith

On a drizzling day in February, almost 64 years to the day of their funeral, I found myself picking my way through the long grasses, the weathered and dilapidated tombstones and monuments in Tardebigge churchyard. Wiping the droplets from my phone, I read and re-read the e-mail that Jane Hall, the churchwarden had sent me. “The graveyard at Tardebigge is a bit higgledy-piggledy but we have the plot noted as row 14, plot 31...

interestingly Alfred is the only Christian name in the register but I checked the names against
the genes reunited website and couldn’t find Alfred Spencer but found; Ernest A Spencer who died in Bromsgrove district, 1958 aged 51.”

I’d become a little embarrassed asking ‘round Tardebigge about this case but Jane could not have been more obliging. Tantalizingly, she told me that the Rev. Underhill’s widow, still lived in Tardebigge and, although she was a centenarian, was still mentally sharp. She contacted Mrs. Underhill’s son, on my behalf, but I heard nothing back. All these years later, still no-one wanted to talk about the tragedy that unfolded on the Lady Luck, all those years ago.

I found the grave, un-marked, but for the mound of sandy soil, on the extremities of the churchyard, strewn with brambles and pitted with rabbit warrens it was almost impossible to tell there was a grave there at all, but the records bore it out. The last resting place of the Spencer’s, ironically, over-looking the place where the Lady Luck had been moored.

It was fitting that I, another liveaboard boater, albeit from another age, should track them down; the Spencer’s were strangers to Tardebigge, outsiders like myself, buried quickly and forgotten quicker. Yet it pained me to think that Edith shared her grave with her killer and shared his ignominy. The case of the Lady Luck was, like any other squalid, domestic murder, of a kind repeated over and over again, year after year; a husband, murdering some-one whom he once purported to love. Perhaps it was the novelty of it occurring on a houseboat which bought the Pathé Newsreels here, and bought me here too, over half a century later?

It is a tale like so many others; a volatile, unfaithful husband who repeatedly threatened to murder his wife, warnings which went ignored until too late. A woman, robbed of a happy retirement, robbed of seeing children and grand-children, robbed of a decent grave and a decent memorial, locked in eternal bondage in the sandy soil with her killer.

It is a sad end to this sorry story but it is a story we must never forget. Remember Edith. Remember her.