Advertise on podcast: Mysteries and Histories

His name is on some of the most famous plays ever written, but could William Shakespeare have been a cover for someone else? Centuries after his death, gaps in his biography fuelled theories that the actor from Stratford-upon-Avon could not have created such extraordinary works. Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, and Edward de Vere, Earl of Oxford, have all been proposed as the hidden author. Supporters point to supposed codes, biographical parallels, and aristocratic knowledge, but none has produced convincing evidence that another writer secretly created Shakespeare’s plays. Contemporary references identify Shakespeare as a writer, and mainstream historians accept his authorship. This episode explores how a literary legacy became a conspiracy and why the search for a hidden genius can seem more compelling than the evidence in plain sight.

Throughout the 1980s, women and girls were found murdered near Ohio highways and truck stops. Several victims were sex workers, and investigators suspected a killer who travelled the interstate routes. One chilling lead gave the case its name: a truck driver reportedly used the CB radio handle “Dr. No. Witness accounts and similarities between the deaths suggested a connection, but investigators struggled to establish which murders belonged to the same series. The truck stops offered a disturbing advantage: an offender could encounter a victim and leave the area before anyone realised she was missing. Decades later, DNA linked former trucker Samuel Legg III to several truck-stop killings from the 1990s, prompting claims that Dr. No had been caught. But those discoveries did not conclusively identify the offender behind the earlier series. The “Dr. No” mystery remains unresolved, including whether one killer was responsible for all the deaths attributed to him.

In August 1951, hundreds of people in the French town of Pont-Saint-Esprit fell ill with stomach pains, insomnia, and terrifying hallucinations. Some believed animals were attacking them; others became dangerously disoriented. Several people died, and dozens were admitted to psychiatric hospitals as doctors struggled to explain the outbreak. Investigators traced the poisoning to bread from a local bakery. Doctors initially blamed ergot, a fungus that contaminates grain and can cause convulsions and hallucinations. But that explanation remained disputed, with later researchers proposing mercury contamination or other chemicals used in flour production. The incident became known as the “cursed bread” affair. Claims of a secret CIA experiment involving LSD added another layer of intrigue, but remain unproven. More than 70 years later, the precise cause of the poisoning is still debated, a haunting mystery rooted in something as ordinary as a loaf of bread.

In January 1989, Chicago television station WMAQ ended its overnight broadcast with a haunting missing-person notice: a grainy photograph, the name Joanna Lopez, and a phone number. There was no age, no description, and no explanation of when or where she had disappeared. Decades later, the footage drew internet sleuths into a mystery with remarkably little evidence. Researchers reported finding no matching entry in major missing-person databases, leaving Joanna’s identity and the circumstances behind the broadcast unverified. Was she a missing girl whose story slipped through the records or was there another explanation? The notice exists, but it does not establish what happened to her. And the lack of records is not proof she never existed: the mystery remains unresolved.

On October 13, 1972, a plane carrying a Uruguayan rugby team, relatives, and friends crashed high in the Andes while travelling to Chile. There were 45 people aboard. Those who survived the impact faced freezing temperatures, serious injuries, and almost no food, then an avalanche buried their makeshift shelter inside the wreckage, killing eight more. With rescue no longer coming and their supplies exhausted, the survivors made an agonising decision: to eat the bodies of those who had died. They sheltered in the broken fuselage and relied on one another while two of the men, Nando Parrado and Roberto Canessa, eventually trekked across the mountains for ten days to find help. Their journey led rescuers back to the wreckage. On December 22 and 23, the remaining survivors were airlifted to safety, ending an ordeal lasting 72 days. Sixteen people returned alive, a story of devastating loss, impossible choices, and extraordinary determination to survive.

On March 18, 1937, a massive explosion tore through a school in New London, Texas, shortly before the end of the school day. Nearly 300 people, most of them children, were killed as the building collapsed, turning an ordinary afternoon into the deadliest school disaster in U.S. To save money, the school had switched to a nearby oil company’s residue gas supply. A faulty connection allowed odorless gas to collect beneath the building, unnoticed until a spark from an electric sanding machine ignited it. Parents and oil-field workers rushed to the wreckage, searching for children beneath the rubble. The tragedy changed gas safety. Texas passed a law requiring a distinctive smell to be added to natural gas so people could detect leaks, a practice that became an industry standard. The familiar warning smell in gas today carries a legacy rooted in New London’s devastating loss.

In 1928, Scottish scientist Alexander Fleming noticed something strange in a contaminated Petri dish at his London laboratory: bacteria would not grow around a patch of mould. The substance responsible, which he named penicillin, would transform medicine, but discovering it was only the beginning. More than a decade later, Howard Florey, Ernst Chain, and their Oxford colleagues, including Norman Heatley, turned Fleming’s observation into a treatment that could save lives. During the Second World War, British and American researchers and manufacturers overcame enormous production challenges to make the drug widely available. Penicillin helped turn once-deadly bacterial infections into treatable illnesses, and Fleming, Florey, and Chain shared the 1945 Nobel Prize. Behind the famous story of an accidental discovery was a much bigger achievement: years of teamwork that brought a laboratory breakthrough to patients around the world.

On March 13, 1973, University of Iowa student Sarah Ann Ottens was found dead in her dorm room at Rienow Hall. Much of the campus had emptied for spring break, but Sarah had stayed behind. She had been brutally beaten and strangled. Fellow student James Wendell Hall was convicted of her murder in 1974 and sentenced to 50 years in prison. But in 1983, his conviction was overturned after evidence emerged that prosecutors had withheld information that could have helped his defence. No one else has ever been charged. More than half a century later, Sarah’s murder remains unsolved, a case marked not only by a young woman’s violent death, but by a conviction that failed to withstand scrutiny.

On June 8, 1924, British climbers George Mallory and Andrew “Sandy” Irvine disappeared into the clouds high on Mount Everest while attempting to become the first people to reach its summit. Neither returned, leaving a question that has haunted mountaineering for a century: did they reach the top before they died? Mallory’s body was discovered in 1999, but it did not settle the mystery. Then, in September 2024, a National Geographic team found a boot containing a foot and a sock labelled “A.C. Irvine”, remains believed to belong to his missing climbing partner. Their camera, which might hold photographs of a successful ascent, remains missing. The discoveries have brought the climbers’ final journey into sharper focus, but whether Mallory and Irvine conquered Everest remains unanswered.

Why would someone confess to a crime they never committed? Real cases reveal how hours of questioning, exhaustion, intimidation, and false claims about evidence can push innocent people to say what investigators want to hear, sometimes believing that confessing is their only way to go home. Children and people with intellectual disabilities are particularly vulnerable, but adults can also be pressured into false admissions. Once a confession is obtained, it can overshadow contradictory evidence and turn an investigation toward the wrong person. This episode explores the psychology of false confessions and the consequences of treating an admission as unquestionable proof. Behind each wrongful conviction is an innocent person losing years of their life and a crime whose real perpetrator may remain free.

In January 1968, 18-year-old Iowa State freshman Sheila Jean Collins was trying to get home to Evanston, Illinois, for the weekend. When her boyfriend could not drive her, she accepted a ride from someone who had found her name on the university’s ride board, without ever learning the driver’s name. Sheila was last seen waiting with her suitcase in Ames on January 26. Two days later, her body was found in a rural ditch near Colo, Iowa. She had been strangled with a nylon cord, and investigators believed she was killed elsewhere before being left there. Her murder remained unsolved for 55 years. No arrest has been made, and the person who offered Sheila that final ride has never been publicly identified.

In February 2009, 44-year-old Lesley Herring vanished from her Los Angeles home, leaving behind her car, phone, keys, purse, jewellery, and savings. Her husband, Lyle, claimed she had simply left but a Starbucks receipt found in her purse appeared to show she had bought coffee days after she disappeared. It was meant to be proof she was alive. Instead, investigators checked the café’s CCTV and found Lyle buying the coffee himself. Detectives concluded he had planted the receipt to create a false timeline and divert suspicion. Lesley’s body was never found, but cadaver dogs detected the scent of human remains in two of Lyle’s vehicles, and evidence showed him staging calls and disposing of belongings. In 2013, he was convicted of second-degree murder and sentenced to 15 years to life.

On Christmas Eve 2010, Lori Erica Ruff died by suicide outside her in-laws’ home in Texas. Afterward, her family found a box of documents revealing that “Lori” had built her life on the identity of a child who had died years earlier. Even her husband had not known her real name. Investigators traced the paperwork back to 1988, when she obtained identification as Becky Sue Turner, then legally changed that name to Lori Erica Kennedy. She later married and had a daughter, but the documents offered no clear path to the person she had been before. In 2016, genealogist Colleen Fitzpatrick used DNA and family records to identify her as Kimberly McLean, who had left her Pennsylvania home at 18. Her mother’s DNA confirmed the match. Kimberly’s identity was finally known; why she chose to erase her past so completely remains uncertain.

In October 1976, a farmer harvesting corn near Otterbein, Indiana, found a small cardboard box about 15 yards from the road. Inside was the body of an older woman who had been shot in the back of the head. For almost 50 years, she was known only as the “Box Lady of Benton County.” In 2026, genetic genealogy finally identified her as Jane Hart, a 69-year-old woman who had been living in Chicago around the time of her death. Her identity was restored but the person who killed her, and the reason she ended up in a rural Indiana cornfield, remain unknown.

In 2002, a quiet Ohio man named Joseph Newton Chandler III died by suicide in his Eastlake apartment. He left behind $82,000, but no family, no clear past, and a name that turned out to belong to an eight-year-old boy killed in a Texas car crash in 1945. For years, authorities had no idea who the adult “Chandler” really was. He had acquired the dead child’s identity in 1978 and lived under it for decades, carefully cutting himself off from people and paperwork. In 2018, genetic genealogy finally identified him as Robert Ivan Nichols: a World War II veteran and Purple Heart recipient from Indiana who had once had a wife and three children, then vanished from their lives in the 1960s. The name was solved, but the real mystery remains: why did Nichols abandon his family, steal a dead child’s identity, and spend the rest of his life hiding? No definitive answer has ever emerged.