Lord Lucan | The Closed Circle | 3
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Hello, Alice. Hello, Matt. How are you doing? Yeah, really good, thanks. Yeah. I'm feeling actually really upbeat, feeling very content. Okay. I think that might be about to change. Oh, God, why? Have you heard of a show called British Scandal? Ah, yes. Yes, we're making that today and things don't always go well. It's 11.30pm, Friday the 7th of November, 1974, London.

Detective Chief Superintendent Roy Ransom steps out of his unmarked police car and approaches the doorstep of 46 Lower Belgrave Street. Pulling the collar of his coat up around his neck to keep out the chill, he gazes up at the imposing five-story townhouse. No passerby would ever guess this is a murder scene. Ransom knocks on the door. It creaks open, revealing a broken lock.

He enters the dark porch and follows the glow of light coming from a small ante room nearby. Beside it is a staircase that leads down to the basement. Lying on the top step is a piece of lead piping wrapped in what looks like sticking plasters, stained red. Ransom's seen plenty of corpses over the years, but nothing quite like what greets him at the bottom of the stairs. The body of a young woman, doubled over. Her bottom half is stuffed into a mail sack.

Her hair and clothing are caked in blood, a pool of which has formed beneath her. Ranson looks up towards a beam of light. It comes from a torch being held by one of two uniformed officers. "Who found her?" "I did. Just after 10pm when the call came in." "The broken front door?" "That was us. No sign of forced entry beforehand." Ranson nods. He looks back at the body. "We got a name?" "Sandra Rivette. She was the living nanny."

Witnesses? Her boss? You're not going to believe this. It's Veronica Lucan, as in Lady Lucan. She managed to escape, but not before the attacker gave her a right battering. She's at St George's in Hyde Park. Is she conscious? Can she give a description? The detective hesitates before answering. She says it was her husband, Lord Lucan. Ransom feels a rush of adrenaline. What are we waiting for then? Let's get cuffs on Lucan. That's the only problem, guv.

No one knows where he is. This is unbelievable. My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big ROAS man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend.

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As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their entire catalogue. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. That's audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. From Wondery, I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. And this is British Scandal.

Well, what do you know, Alice? A story on British scandal ends up turning dark and awful and bloody. An absolute shocker. Yeah, it might have seemed at the start that this was going to be a lovely romantic tale between an aristocratic, almost James Bond-like figure and his lovely young wife. But sadly, that wasn't to be because Lord Lucan had a number of vices. Because we're not allowed nice things, are we? Yeah, he had a gambling addiction. Gaslighting was quite high on his to-do list. Yeah.

Yes, he treated her very badly and she was on a cocktail of anti-psychotic drugs, which really didn't help. So there's a lot of reasons why this romance goes wrong. And we ended the last episode with the Lucan's nanny dead on the basement floor and Lucan on the run. Yeah, totally shocking. So imagine we're going to pick up, he's going to be found, arrested and brought to justice, sealed with a bow. This is episode three, The Closed Circle. It's 11.30pm.

Thursday 7th November 1974, Uckfield, Sussex. A wave of relief grips John as he parks the Ford Corsair at the top of a long driveway. He's finally reached Grants Hill House. It's the lavish home of Ian Maxwell Scott, a Claremont director and trusted friend. John needs someone he can count on for support and discretion. Ian fits the mould perfectly. John knocks for what feels like a lifetime.

Only now does he look at his watch. He hadn't thought about the late hour. Eventually, Ian's wife Susan opens the door, bleary-eyed and in her dressing gown. Susan, I'm terribly sorry to wake you, but I must speak to Ian urgently. I'm sorry, John. He's staying in London tonight. John inwardly curses. It hasn't crossed his mind that Ian might not be here. Confiding in Susan isn't part of the plan. Poor Susan. She's like, well, I don't want to be part of it either.

He watches her eyes travel down to his sweater, which he suddenly realises is stained with blood. But when Susan looks back at his face, it's with an expression of concern, not fear. Whatever's happened? In truth, John's always suspected Susan has a crush on him, something others at the Claremont have alluded to. The ego of this guy, and also in this moment. Talking to her might actually work in his favour. It's a gamble, but as a betting man, it's one John is willing to take. For a change.

I have been through the most nightmarish experience, Susan. May I come in? Minutes later, John is in the sitting room, giving Susan his account of what happened earlier at 46 Belgrave Street. I was walking past the house when I noticed something strange through the basement window. It looked as if a struggle was taking place. So he happened to be walking past his ex-wife's house just in the moment that there was an altercation. So, so convenient. Yeah.

"'I still have a key, of course, so I rushed straight in. "'As I entered, I slipped on something wet. "'It was only when I looked down that I saw it was blood.' "'John seemed shaken. "'Susan pours him a large whisky. "'He takes a swig. "'Before I knew what was happening, a man dashed past me up the stairs. "'Perhaps I should have gone after him. "'But I was concerned for Veronica. "'I had to check she was all right. "'Of course. "'She was covered in blood. "'Then I saw the body.'

Susan raises a hand to her mouth, clearly horrified. ''Veronica said I must have done it or hired someone else to. Honestly, Susan, the very idea. But you know what she's like.'' John glances back at Susan. She's nodding, hanging on his every word. ''Eventually, Veronica let me help her upstairs to lie down. But when I went into the bathroom for some wet washcloth, she ran away. She would have spoken to the police by now. No one will believe my side.''

They will, John. Anyone who knows you knows you're simply not capable of such a thing. Susan, Susan, Susan, Susan, my darling. Let's have a little huddle. Can I just speak to you behind this napkin, Susan, just for a sec? Yeah, go on. What would you say? I'd be like, Susan, mate. He's lying. John wonders if he should call his lawyer. If Susan believes him, maybe the police will too. Could I use your phone? Susan directs John to the drawing room. His heart pounds as he picks up the phone, torn over what to do.

Lucky's going to do a prank call. Actually, yeah. I could ring Cold Seal and... What a reverence. Do the usual prank call about wanting double glazed. If you didn't grow up in the Midlands in the 90s, that will have gone over your head. But if you did, you will have reveled in that joke. Finally, John dials a number. His mother, Kate Lucan, answers. She sounds relieved to hear his voice. Oh, John, where are you? John called her earlier after leaving the murder scene.

He needed someone to check on the kids. "Never mind that. Are the children okay?" "Yes, they're here with me. So are the police. You need to speak to them." John hesitates. "I can't. Not right now. I'll call them tomorrow." John replaces the receiver. He has to act quickly. He asks Susan for some writing paper, then pens two letters to his brother-in-law, Bill Shand Kidd. One lists instructions for his creditors.

The other repeats the version of events he's given to Susan and his wishes that Bill and his wife Christina take custody of the children. He also writes a letter to his friend Michael Stoop, whose car he used to drive here. Sorry about the scratches. I committed a murder. When you come across my children, which I hope you will, please tell them that you knew me and that all I cared about was them. By the time he's finished, it's 1am. Rising to his feet, John asks Susan to post the letters for him.

Why don't you stay here? Get a good night's sleep. All right, Susan. Thirsty. It's a kind offer, Susan, but I must get back to London, clear things up. John gets into the Ford Corsair. He starts the engine and waves Susan goodbye. He has no intention of returning to London and clearing up anything. He has a very different destination in mind. The Wild Bean Cafe on the M1. Because there's a meal deal.

It's 10am, Friday the 8th of November 1974, Hyde Park, London. In her bed at St George's Hospital, Veronica forces herself to keep talking. Her head is bandaged from the blows she sustained. Her face and neck bruised. Now the sedatives she was given are wearing off. The pain is excruciating.

DCS Roy Ransom, the detective she is talking to, eyes her with concern as her voice becomes croakier. We can do this later, Lady Luke, and when you've had more rest. Veronica shakes her head. She has to carry on. I don't know how many times he hit me. Four, I think. When I started to scream, he said, shut up.

That's when I knew it was John. There was no mistaking his voice. Then he pushed his fingers down my throat. He was wearing gloves. After that, he tried to throttle me. He only stopped when I grabbed his testicles. What happened then? I asked him where Sandra was and he said she'd gone out. Then he seemed to change his mind. He told me he'd killed her, but by mistake. He thought she was me. Ransom stopped scribbling in his notepad. He looked Veronica dead in the eye. You're sure that's what he said?

Veronica is used to people doubting her word, thinking she's hysterical or delusional. She's determined the police won't see her in the same light, writing her account off as the imaginings of a madwoman. She returns Ransom's firm gaze. When she speaks, her voice doesn't waver. Yes, I am certain. I realise this may be difficult to answer, Lady Lucan, but why would your husband go to such extreme lengths to get rid of you? Veronica hesitates.

Her history of mental illness could well discredit her, but she decides to be honest. She tells Ransom everything. How John tried and failed to have her committed. His obsession with winning custody of the children. His endless gambling debts. I know he thought his life would be easier if I were gone, but he didn't want the expense of divorcing me. Don't worry, you're safe now. My officers won't rest until Lord Lucan is in custody. Veronica's relief is palpable. At last she's being heard and believed.

She vows to keep telling her story until John is behind bars, where he belongs. That might not be as easy as she thinks. It's 3pm the same day, 8th November 1974, Barclay Square. In a private room at the Claremont Club, John Aspinall greets several regulars. Ugh, I'm out. This guy, honestly. Can't stand him. They include Bill Shand Kid, racing tipster Charles Benson and society portrait painter Dominic Elwes.

Taking in the faces of his friends, the best of men, Aspinall invites them to be seated. Why do I feel like the best of men for Aspinall is in fact just the poshest of men? Yes, and if he thinks they're good guys, are they? Yeah, that's not a character testimonial I'm willing to accept. He waves at a nearby platter of sandwiches. He signals they should help themselves. Then he sits at the head of the table. Aspinall sees this as a council of war and intends to treat it with the necessary gravitas.

Thank you for coming. By now you've all heard the news. One can hardly avoid it. He holds up a copy of the afternoon edition of the Evening Standard. The headline screams, Belgravia murder. The subhead reads, Earl sought, body in sack. Countess runs out screaming. There are tuts and murmurs of disapproval. Benson shakes his head, despairing. The television coverage is even worse. It's an utter disgrace. He's been tried and sentenced before they've even spoken to him.

Dominic Elwes looks at Aspinall, visibly nervous. But John, did he do it? I hardly think that's the question we should be asking Dominic. The question is, how do we help Lucky? After all, this isn't just awful for our friend, it could reflect very badly on anyone associated with him. And there's the real motivation. Pure self-interest. Everyone in the room knows that means them.

It's not just money that talks in the aristocratic world they inhabit. Reputation is everything. Elvis is first to speak. Well, perhaps we could smuggle him away on a banana boat to South America or some such. Thank you, Elvis. We'll blue sky it, pop it on the board. Anybody else? Anybody else? No, I think that was the best idea. Let's do that. Now Bill Shand Kid turns to Aspinall, concerned. Are you suggesting we help him flee?

What would you have us do, Bill? Hand him to the police? Have him languish in some godforsaken prison with the real criminals? With commoners? And you're mad awful. Commoners everywhere. As far as the eye can see, commoners.

There are disapproving murmurs amongst the men. Nobody wants that. I agree it's a ghastly idea, but if he did it... Aspinall has had enough. He has worked tirelessly to keep the Claremont a closed circle. Anyone and anything unseemly needs to remain on the outside, from the lower classes to the police. God, he's worked hard, hasn't he? He bangs his fist on the table. So what if he did do it? We all know what Veronica is like.

Who knows into what red hell one's soul will stray, Under the pressure of a woman always out to reduce you?

It is down to those of us who truly understand Lucky, whose stud lines lead back to the same stables as he, to save him from those who would wish to destroy him, who would destroy all of us, simply for defending our place in a society that seeks to diminish us and our status. The vitriol and also the kind of put-upon privilege, the idea that nobody should question them and that everybody's out to get them when they're just dripping in opportunity and means.

Unless this is really making me want to convert to communism. Viva la revolution. The men shift in their seats and nervously eye each other. They seem stirred, but conflicted. This is not just a matter of friendship, gentlemen. It is about our very survival. If we do not stick together, look out for each other, we lose everything. What becomes of us then? Aspinall's eyes travel across the group. Benson is the first to speak. I agree. Now, Elwes. As do I.

What's the plan? Aspinall looks satisfied. When these irritants, in their uniformed raincoats and hobnail boots, turn up at our doors, we tell them nothing. We give Lucky our support, loyalty and discretion, just as we would wish him to do for any one of us.

On the surface, quite a rousing exhibit of loyalty. Yes. And then you think what he's done and what they think he's done and then you realise it's corrupt and awful. They're terrible human beings. Yeah. One by one, each man nods their approval. Aspinall is content for now. He's confident that by sticking together and saying nothing, they will give John and themselves the best chance of getting out of this unscathed.

I feel with all my heart that this is about 2% about John and the rest is all about them. Yeah, I think you've been generous in that 2%. I really have. I'm rounding up. It's the 9th of November 1974, Uxbridge. Detective Chief Inspector David Goering sits in the grand drawing room of Grant's Hill House. He takes in the large family portrait hanging on the wall, the sparkling crystal chandeliers. It's a far cry from his modest terrace on the outskirts of London.

Goering can't stand this posh mob. He's never met such a rude, obstinate bunch. Most of Lucan's friends and acquaintances treat him and his colleagues with utter disdain. They seem totally unmoved by Sandra Rivette's fate.

One expressed regret only because nannies are so hard to come by these days. It's so unfeeling. There's just no genuine human empathy. It's completely selfish. Susan Maxwell Scott is proving to be no exception. She was the last person who saw Lucan and yet it took her two days to contact the police. Don't you think it would have been useful to come forward as soon as it was clear Lord Lucan was missing? Sorry, I didn't see the news. Come on, Susan. For two days.

I find that difficult to believe. Maxwell Scott smiles at him. Polite, but cold. I don't care what you believe. And that's the truth of it. Goering struggles to hide his frustration. Maxwell Scott is a brick wall in human form. The rest of Lucan's friends have been the same. So Aspinall's plan worked then? Yes. Although Aspinall says something to the police, which is incredible. So he's the one who's saying, we don't say anything.

This is literally what he said to the police. If she'd been my wife, I would have bashed her to death five years before and so would you. No actual way. Yeah, I mean, it's a terrible thing to say anyway. But completely in character. Yes, and from the architect to the plan who's got them all round and said, right, now we're closing ranks. And then he's the one who says it. Also, another little detail, he was holding a chimpanzee at the time from his private zoo. Standard. I expect nothing less.

Goering returns to his car, slamming the door as he gets into the driver's seat. Bloody eaten mafia, that's what they are! To Goering's surprise, his colleague in the passenger seat, Roy Ransom, flashes him a grin. What are you looking so happy about? They've found the car Lucan borrowed. Goering can hardly believe it. This is the breakthrough they needed. A couple of hours later, Goering and Ransom are 16 miles away in Newhaven, checking over an abandoned Ford Corsair.

Gerring takes in the splatterings of blood on the driving seat. Ransom, who's looking in the boot, calls over. Dave! Over here! Gerring joins him. Now it's his turn to grin. Sitting in the boot of the car is a length of lead pipe. They've got him over a barrel, sweetheart. You'd have made a great 70s copper. Yeah, I was just thinking that. Wasted.

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The 12th of November 1974, Mayfair, London. DCS Ransom fights his way through the baying mob of reporters and photographers gathered outside Gerald Road police station. Their number seems to be growing by the day.

It's becoming increasingly clear to Ransom that the press interest in this case is only going to get bigger. And I think it's fair to say would never really abate. Yes, and this is when tabloids are taking off. So this is a new era in journalism, moving away from broadsheets to a far more scandalous and salacious type of reporting. So in many ways, it was the perfect tabloid story at the perfect time. Which is good for us in 2021, making a podcast. It was the perfect podcast story at the perfect time.

It's been five days since Sandra Rivette was murdered, and despite their breakthrough with the car, Lucan himself is still nowhere to be found. Ranson is now desperate to either find a body or a fugitive. Every day, the public mood is turning uglier, and it's only been stoked by the media dubbing this the upstairs-downstairs murder. The press are hammering the class angle. So are we, to be fair.

Ranson and his officers have even been accused of treating Lucan's posh friends with too much deference, dragging their heels for fear of ruffling upper-class feathers. The very idea makes Ranson sick. He couldn't be doing more if he tried. He's launched a massive UK-wide search operation with officers from across the country diverted to help.

Every guest house in and around New Haven has been turned over. Around a thousand fishing trawlers and boats have been searched, along with every ferry from Cherbourg to Saint-Malo. He even ordered a search of Warwick Castle, for Christ's sake, due to it being owned by Lucan's cousin. The network is extensive. He could be anywhere. But still, the tabloids remain convinced Lucan is being let off the hook because Rivette was nothing more than a lowly servant. Ransom and his team are exhausted.

Looking out his office window at the assembled reporters, Ranson realises he can't keep fighting the press. Ten minutes later, Ranson and his colleague DCI Goering are seated in the Duke of Wellington, round the corner from the station. With them are a few favoured members of the press. Ranson eyes Goering knowingly, then takes a sip of his pint, leans forward. "I shouldn't be telling you this, but we've had a lead Lucan might be in France." The assembled pack chats excitedly, taking notes.

Goering shakes his head, seemingly exasperated. You ask me, it's a load of rubbish. Lord Lucan's dead. My guess is he topped himself the night of the murder, jumped off a ferry and got caught in a propeller or something. He's fish food. The group of hacks discuss this alternative theory. Ransom sits back, enjoying his pale ale. He knows the best chance they have of cracking this case is to have the media on side. Even better, helping them with the detective work.

The newspapers have resources the Met can only dream of. If they're going to keep leading on this case, Ransom's going to make damn sure they're working with, rather than against him. It's seven months later, the 1st of June 1975. James Fox straightens his tie and smooths his jacket as he knocks on the door of 46 Lower Bellgrave Street. For the past few months, the 30-year-old journalist has been working on an in-depth feature about Lord Lucan for the Sunday Times magazine.

The Earl is still missing, and with the inquest into Sandra Rivett's murder only a week away, the case has become a national obsession. Fox has gathered an extensive range of opposing voices. He only has one person left to interview, Veronica Lucan. Oh, this is going to be explosive. The trouble is, no journalist has got near her. The police have practically become her personal bodyguards. Fox knows even if she speaks to him today, she may have been instructed to tell him very little.

Regardless, he knocks again. Just as he's about to give up, Veronica peers nervously through the crack in the door. Hello, I'm James Fox from the Sunday Times magazine. You may have heard I'm writing a piece about your husband. What do you want with me? Your side of the story. Your husband's friends may have closed ranks around him, but they've been more than happy to talk about you. And the stuff they're saying, it's not pretty. What have they told you? James hesitates, a little embarrassed.

They say you defecated on dinner plates and there are rumours about a cat. I'm sorry, what? Did I miss that episode? No. So one of the stories they're circulating among their friends is that Veronica dismembered the family cat. It's like a sort of witch thing, isn't it? Like they're trying to make her sound mad and lonely. You skimmed over the dinner plates, I see. Yes, I didn't really want to dwell on that unless you'd like to go into more detail. Without a word, Veronica undoes the chain and invites him into the hallway.

She points down the hall where two cats stroll towards them. That one is the cat in question. The other belonged to Sandra. And that's the crockery. Clean as a whistle. James wonders how many more stories about Veronica are complete fabrication. Lady Lucan, I'd really like to give you equal space in my piece. If you'll allow. Veronica invites him through to the sitting room. To James' delight, she's soon chatting enthusiastically. She even offers him some family photographs to go with the feature.

She describes the night of the murder in minute detail. She tells of her marriage breakdown, how her sister has all but deserted her, how she raged against Lucan's friends because of their treatment towards her. James finds that easy enough to believe. He thought John Aspinall was one of the most arrogant and callous men he'd ever met.

When James asked him what he felt about Sandra Rivette, Aspinall simply said, "Of course, out of politeness one says it's very hard on the nanny, although I don't, of course, feel any personal sense of loss." He's a monster. But the more James talks to Veronica, the more he sees how damaged she really is. She's hardly a warm person, and she doesn't hold back when it comes to her enemies, hacking away at them with venom.

In truth, James can see why Veronica has her haters. She's prickly to say the least. He imagines the likes of Aspinall were outraged by her audacity. The fact that she refused to change and become what they wanted her to be.

As James says goodbye, he makes a promise to Veronica that he will be fair in his reporting. He intends to keep it. No one deserves the treatment this woman has suffered. James vows that when next week's inquest begins, everyone will know Sandra Yvette wasn't the only victim in all this. For all her faults, Veronica Lucan was too. June 1975, Horse Ferry Road Coroner's Court. Albert Hemsby wipes the sweat from his brow as he awaits the verdict at his daughter's inquest.

He doesn't know if it's the heat from outside or the nervous anticipation. He just wants this to be over. For ten days, he has listened as various people have their say. The QCs have squabbled over marital spats, debts, police evidence, DNA samples and motives. But Albert's heard next to nothing about Sandra herself. He glances at the newspaper's front page on his lap.

What an ugly real-life performance of Upstairs Downstairs. Sandra Revec, the little Miss Nobody, was firmly kept in her lowly place by his chums, Downstairs. If words of sorrow or compassion for her were spoken by the Upstairs crowd, they were very few and far between. Albert couldn't agree more. Every one of Lucan's friends and family, to testify, has done so in the same cold, matter-of-fact manner. They all seem to be completely devoid of emotion. They speak about Lucan as if he's a hero. It's maddening.

The only testimony to elicit any feeling from Lucan's mob was that of the Earl's eldest daughter, Frances. Her statement was enough to move any parent. I heard Daddy calling for Mummy. I got up and saw Daddy coming from the bedroom on the floor below. He went downstairs. That was the last I saw of him. He never came to the top of the house, either to look for Mummy or say goodnight to me. Albert knows he isn't the only person who has lost someone in all this. But that doesn't lessen the pain.

All he wants now is some closure. To his relief, the jury takes only 31 minutes to name Lord Lucan as Sandra's murderer. Wow. Sandra's mother Eunice cries as the verdict is read out. Albert draws her towards him, holds her tight. He can't help but glance at Lucan's mother and the shanned kids across the room. They look crushed. Then he moves his gaze to Veronica Lucan. She smiles broadly, as if vindicated.

Albert waits for one of them to approach him. Say something. Anything. None of them do. The police ignore him and Eunice too. It's the same outside. The press pack rushes towards Lady Lucan. It's heartbreaking. Albert's a shy man, not used to the spotlight. But he makes a point of seeking out a television reporter. He takes his microphone, speaks slowly and clearly. My daughter's name has hardly been mentioned, yet she is the reason we are all here. Sandra Rivette.

Albert knows his words will be lost to the bigger story, but at least he has tried to have Sandra remembered. It's seven years later, October 1982, Eton Square. Veronica Lucan sits in her flat drinking tea. She checks her watch. She listens to the second-hand tick of the mantelpiece clock.

Realising her sister will be here soon, she puts the cup down and goes back to the suitcase she's packing. The last few years have consisted of daily struggles with being a single parent, regular stints in psychiatric units, and ever-changing medication. It's been exhausting. Throughout it all, Christina and Bill have stepped in to take care of the children. Now Veronica knows why. They've been lining themselves up to replace her, just as John wanted.

Six weeks ago, she received an affidavit from the official solicitor, alleging she was unable to cope and suggesting the children be placed permanently with the Shand kids. Even worse, now they're teenagers, they've expressed their preference to go, saying they feel more at home with their aunt and uncle. So Veronica sees no point in fighting the case.

Today is just a formality. Can you imagine all three of your kids deciding to go and live with somebody else? It's so sad. You've been treated appallingly by your husband. And then your children don't want anything to do with you. And all of this was kind of over a custody battle. Veronica places the last item in the suitcase, a shawl given to her when she had her eldest, Frances, before everything went wrong. She allows herself a brief moment to remember the good times she and John had at the beginning.

Then she shuts the case. She wants no reminder of those days now. Five minutes later, Christina is at the front door, taking the case from Veronica. You know, you can come and see them whenever you want. I would never stand in your way. It's an olive branch, and Veronica knows she should take it, but she can't.

She simply won't allow herself to feel anything for any of them anymore. Oh my goodness. No, they've made their choice, as have you. You've all betrayed me. I want nothing more to do with any of you.

You just can't imagine being able to do that. That's sort of a side of her personality that James Fox, the journalist, was referring to. Cold, quite difficult, a complex woman for sure. Yes, and what's really difficult for us in retrospect is how much of that is down to the way that she's been treated by so many people and how much was she just a little bit difficult? Not that that justifies anything that happened to her, but it's really hard to get an assessment of her personality. Absolutely. Absolutely.

Closing the door on her sister and her own role as a mother, Veronica feels she's finally closing it on her life with John too. There's nothing left for him to take from her. She's finally free of him, but she's paid the highest price. At 45 years of age, she doesn't let anyone get close to her again. She's completely alone and knows she always will be. Devastating. The idea that that's the only way that she can distance herself from that trauma.

Did they ever reconcile? I hate to tell you this, but they didn't. And when she died, she left all her money to Shelter, the homelessness charity. So this really was the line in the sand. This was the end of their relationship.

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Let's face it, we were all that kid. So first call your parents to say I'm sorry, and then download the Instacart app to get delivery in as fast as 30 minutes all school year long. Get a $0 delivery fee for your first three orders while supplies last. Minimum $10 per order. Additional terms apply. It's 12 years later, 1994, Kent. Roy Ransom wheezes a little as he makes his way to the front door. He recovers himself before opening it to his son, Charles.

Roy beams at him and ushers him inside. Come on, Charlie, I'll show you the latest pages. Ransom clocks the weary look on his son's face, but leads Charles to his study regardless. Piles of folders lay open on the desk surrounding Ransom's word processor. The cursor flicks on the one word of text displayed on the screen, like a beacon demanding attention. Conclusion. Ransom sees Charles eyeing it, ominously. Before you ask, I haven't decided what it's going to say yet.

Since retiring, Ransom's been putting all his time and energy into this project. A book about his ongoing search for Lord Lucan. In truth, it's been 20 years in the making. 20 years! I know, get us a first draft soon, mate. Since the day he entered that murder scene in Lower Belgrave Street, Ransom has never stopped investigating. Because Lucan was the one that got away.

Yeah, professionally, that must haunt you. It'd drive you mad, wouldn't it? If your whole thing is solving cases, and the biggest one you couldn't solve, well, you'd write a book about it. That's exactly what you'd do. You'd try, at least. Ransom has always believed Lucan didn't die that night, but went into hiding, and he can't let go of the desire to find him.

Ransom's been all over the globe following up on sightings. South Africa, Thailand, Perth, Japan, Hong Kong, Mexico. Convenient. All very fun places to go to. Mauritius, SeaWorld in Florida, Legoland. Each time he's come across the same group of reporters also on the hunt. He's even enlisted one to help with his book. So this is a bit of a wild goose chase. All those places are so disparate.

Yeah, and it's very tabloid National Enquirer stuff, isn't it? Sightings of Lucan are like Nessie. They are great. They happen periodically. And, well, my favourite was a guy, a bare-chested, pot-smoking folk singer called Jungle Barry Halpin, who lived in Goa. There was a whole book written about whether this guy was Lucan. You may not be surprised to hear it was subsequently completely discredited. Ah, so it wasn't him you're saying categorically?

I don't think Jungle Barry Halpin is Lord Lucan, no. I mean, how old would he be now? He'd be 87. 87. I mean, moving slower, you'd think. Yeah, this is part of the problem. The sightings obviously have to be older as the years go by. I'm not sure they always are. Hang on, he still looks like he's in his 30s. That's just a tall boat with a tash. Suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness, Ransom sits down at his desk. Charles eyes him with concern.

Promise me this will be the end of it, Dad. The book, I mean, if he hasn't popped up by now... There's something so sweet about that, like, Dad, leave it now, yeah? Ransom gives a reluctant nod. He starts to cough. He's been doing that a lot lately. He's not been well, but he won't tell Charles that. Frog in my throat. Do me a favour, son. Stick the kettle on. Charles seems reluctant to leave him, but to Ransom's relief, he does as he's told and heads to the kitchen.

Alone with his thoughts, Ransom reaches into his trouser pocket for his wallet. He opens it up and takes out a crumpled photograph. The familiar face of Lord Lucan stares back at him, with his perfectly combed short dark hair, playful eyes and thick black moustache. He almost seems to be mocking him. He puts the photo back in his wallet and returns to the screen.

By the time he left the force, he was Chief Superintendent. To anyone on the outside looking in, his career has been a huge success. But for Ransom, it feels as though he's fallen short. He suspects that however he concludes this book, it will leave as many unanswered questions as his investigation did all those years ago. He's no closer to Lucan now than he's ever been, and Ransom fears he's running out of time. It's the 3rd of February 2016. The Rolls building, London.

George Bingham's relief is palpable as he walks out of the High Court.

At last, his father has been declared officially dead, 42 years after he vanished. You forget in all of this that they were kids who needed and wanted closure. I mean, that is really, really tough to live with, hanging over you and being in the press all the time. It means at the age of 49, George has finally been named the 8th Earl of Lucan. Of course. To George, the title isn't a big deal.

In this day and age, it hardly has the same cachet and status bestowed upon the generations before him. And while he has been afforded a privileged lifestyle, George considers himself a pretty normal guy. But he is glad of the publicity it affords him today. The body of his father has never been found, so speculation over his fate has only increased over the years. To George, there's no question of his dad being dead. He feels in his bones that he committed suicide within hours of the murder.

But George also has another theory about how Sandra Rivette died. George is convinced the murder was an insurance job that went horribly wrong. The more he's learned about his mother over the years, the more he thinks the cocktail of drugs she was taking, coupled with the shock of being attacked, could have made her an unreliable witness.

George's theory is that his dad hired a man to burgle the house but then Sandra disturbed the intruder and he lost control. With a large press pack gathered outside the court, George decides to renew his bid to clear his father's name. Imagine for Veronica your own son not believing your account of events.

It would feel like such a betrayal, wouldn't it? Also, you can't help feeling, you've gone through all this time with your dad either missing or dead, with this murder and everything that's gone on with your mum. In a way, why would you want to keep talking about it? It seems odd that at that moment, you've had him officially declared dead, you would just want to go home and try and move on with your life. I have always considered a person innocent until proven guilty. I have made no secret of my belief my father did not commit murder. George could speak for longer.

but he sees his wife eyeing him with concern. George knows she worries every time his father's name is brought back into the news. All too often, it plunges George into a place of frustration and despair, so he steps away from the microphone and follows her back to their car.

A familiar figure intercepts them. It's Sandra Rivett's son, Neil Berryman. I've been meaning to call you, George. Hang on, what? Yeah, so, Neil Berryman, Sandra's son, and George, Lucan's son, have struck up a bit of an unlikely friendship. Neil is convinced that Lucan hired a hitman to kill Veronica, but, unlike George, he thinks Lucan is still alive and hiding somewhere. The nights at the pub must be wild to be a fly on the wall then.

I think I've found some new evidence that proves he's in Australia. I'm going to look into it. George understands the compulsion to keep digging more than most. But seeing Neil's desperate face, he feels only sadness. How long are they going to keep regurgitating the past? George's sisters never speak about this publicly. They have always tried to put it behind them. Maybe he should do the same. I can't tell you what to do, Neil, but I don't want to live out my parents' life forever. Do you? George pats Neil's arm, supportive but firm.

Then he carries on walking to his car, a new resolve taking hold. Today should be a fresh start in every sense. From now on, George must look towards the future, be a Lord Lucan unburdened by the weight of history. He just hopes the public's never-ending obsession with this story will allow him to do that. It's November 2020, Scotland Yard. In a glass-fronted office, Neil Berryman sits next to a senior detective.

They're both looking at a computer screen displaying several pictures of an elderly gentleman. You can see the likeness, can't you? It's not obvious, but then it has been a number of years, Mr. Berryman. The man they're looking at lives in a commune in Australia and Neil is convinced he's Lord Lucan.

The commune's based in the suburbs of Perth. His friends there have tried to protect his true identity, but my man's sure it's him. He's a sitting duck. All you need to do is get some Aussie officers to question him. It's taken Neil four years to track the man down with the help of private detectives. He spent £30,000 of his own money doing it. The police have been no use at all. And from the look on this officer's face, Neil doesn't hold out much hope of that changing.

I'm sorry, Mr. Berriman. We just don't have enough evidence to arrest him. We will investigate, though. We take all sightings seriously. Neil suspects that's far from true. The detective and his colleagues are more likely thinking he's crazy, desperate. In a way, they're right. If this man is Lucan, he's 85 and in very poor health. Time is literally running out to bring him to justice. And that's all Neil really wants. Justice for his mother, now 52 with two kids of his own.

What happened to Sandra haunts him more and more with each passing day. This is what we were talking about before. By not hearing Sandra's name very often in this story, you forget that this was a defining chapter in so many other people's lives, not just the Lukens. Imagine the drive it would give you to want justice for a murdered parent. I don't think any of us can really fully appreciate how obsessional you must become about it. I mean, it would drive me mad. I wouldn't give up.

This may be nothing but a joke to you lot, but I'm not going to stop. Neil can see the pity in the detective's eyes as he walks away. He's long since stopped caring what people think of him. Even if everyone else has given up, he never will. The search for Lord Lucan goes on. John Aspinall continued to defend Lucky Lucan. He later had a portrait of him placed in his casino, under which appeared a note. It simply said...

I would embrace him. I roll. Roy Ransom never gave up his search for Lord Lucan.

and carried his photo with him until the day he died in 1994. Wow. Veronica Lucan spent the years after losing custody of her children, living as a recluse. On the 26th of September 2017, she was found dead at home aged 80, with a pill bottle under her body. An inquest heard she died from respiratory failure caused by barbiturates and alcohol poisoning. After all she went through, I can't believe she lived till 80. She never wavered in her account of the events of November 1974.

She later expressed the belief that her husband died the following day by jumping from a ferry into its propellers. In her book, published the same year she died, Lady Lucan said, "I will eternally regret that an innocent woman died because of my relationship with my husband." Lord Lucan's body has never been found. If still alive, he is now 88 years old.

This is the third episode in our series, Lord Lucan. If you like our show, please give us a five-star rating and a review. And be sure to tell your friends. You can listen to new episodes one week early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app. Subscribe on Apple Podcasts, Amazon Music, the Wondery app, or wherever you're listening right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app to listen for free. In the episode notes, you'll find some links and offers from our sponsors. Please support them.

by supporting them you help us offer you this show for free another way to support us is to answer a short survey at wondery.com slash survey a quick note about our dialogue in most cases we can't know exactly what was said but all our dramatizations are based on historical research if you'd like to know more about this story books include a different class of murder by laura thompson a moment in time by veronica lucan and the gamblers by john pearson

For this episode, we also drew on the 1975 Sunday Times feature In Search of Lord Lucan by James Fox. I'm Matt Ford. And I'm Alice Levine. Wendy Grandeter wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our sound design is by Rich Evans. Script editing by James Magniac. Our associate producer is Francesca Gallardi Quadriocorsio. Our senior producer is Joe Sykes.

Our executive producers are Jenny Beckman, Stephanie Jens, and Marshall Louis for Wondery. This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store, or maybe you're with your secret lover, or maybe you're robbing a bank.

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