That must have been the murderer. Not more
than two guineas had been stolen from the
house. An iron-headed mallet, such as ships'
carpenters use, and with the initials J. P. on
the handle, was left behind by the murderer.
It was quite clear that the wretch must have
stolen in, the moment the shutters were up
and while the door was closing. He had
glided in, first stealthily locking the door,
and then asked to look at some unbleached
cotton stockings. As Marr had turned to take
these from a pigeon-hole behind the counter,
the first blow must have been struck, for the
stockings were found clenched in poor Marr's
hands. The murder of the child seemed alone
to prove that revenge had been the motive.

Next week many persons were arrested about
Shadwell on suspicion of the murders, but they
were all exonerated and discharged. A sailor,
half crazed with drink, accused himself of the
murders, but his insanity was soon
discovered.

On the Sunday week, the Marrs were buried;
thirty thousand labouring and seafaring people
watching the funeral with faces of "horror and
grief." All London was stricken with fear;
fire-arms and thousands of rattles were
purchased. There was a horrible alarm that the
unknown monster, having failed to secure plunder
the first time, would attempt further crimes;
the bravest man dreaded the approach of
night.

That dread was too well founded. On Thurs-
day, the 19th of the same mouth—only twelve
nights after the Marr murder, and near the same
place—another butchery took place. It
occurred at the King's Arms public-house, at the
corner of New Gravel-lane: a small street
running at right angles to Ratcliff - highway.
Mr. Williamson, a man of seventy, and his wife,
kept the house; the other inmates were a middle-
aged Irishwoman who cleaned the pots and
waited in the taproom, a little granddaughter
about fourteen years old, and a young journeyman,
aged about twenty-six, lodger. Mr.
Williamson was a respectable man, always in the
habit of turning out his guests at eleven o'clock,
and finally shutting up at twelve, when the last
neighbour had sent for his ale.

Nothing particular happened in the house
while it was open that night, except that some
timid persons noticed a pale red-haired man,
with ferocious eyes, who kept in dark corners,
went in and out several times, and had been
met wandering in the passages, much to the
landlord's annoyance.

When the guests had left, and the lodger had
gone to bed in the second floor (the child being
asleep on the first), Mr. Williamson was drawing
beer on the ground floor, Mrs. Williamson was
moving to and fro between the back kitchen
and the parlour. The servant was cleaning the
grate and placing wood for the morning.

The lodger nervous in bed, and only able to
doze, woke at half-past eleven, thinking of Mr.
Williamson's wealth, the murder of the Marrs,
and his landlord's carelessness about leaving his
door open so late in a dangerous and ruffianly
neighbourhood. Suddenly he heard the street
door below slammed and locked with tremendous
violence. He leapt out of bed, and lowering his
head over the balustrade, heard the servant
scream from the back parlour, " Lord Jesus
Christ, we shall be all murdered!" He felt at
once it was the murderer of the Marrs. Half
crazed with terror, and unconscious of what
he did, Turner crept down-stairs and looked
through the glass window of the taproom
(Mr. De Quincey says through the door that
was ajar). He could not see the murderer at
first, but heard him behind the door, rapidly
trying the lock of a cupboard or escritoire.
Presently there appeared a tall well-made man,
dressed in a rough drab bearskin coat,
who knelt over the body of the landlady and
rifled her pockets. He pulled out various
bunches of keys, one of which fell with a clash
on the floor. The listening man noticed that
the murderer's shoes creaked as he walked, and
that his coat was lined with the finest siik.
With the keys now stolen, the murderer
retired again to the middle section of the parlour.
Even in his fear Turner felt that there was now
a moment or two left for escape. The sighs
of the dying women, the clash of the keys,
and the jingling of the money, would prevent
his footsteps on the creaky stairs from being
heard. Softly and with his bare feet he ran
up-stairs to escape by the roof, but in his
terror he could not find the trap-door. He
then ran to his room, forced the bed to the door
as gently as he could, and tied the sheets
together to drop from the window, which was
twenty-two feet to the ground. This rope he
fastened to an iron spike he luckily found in
the tester of the bed. In a few minutes he
had let himself down, and was caught by a
watchman who was passing at the time. His
first thought had been to save the child, but
he was afraid she might cry if he awoke her
suddenly, and then both the child and he
would have been murdered. Almost speechless,
all Turner could do, on reaching the ground, was
to point to the door of Williamson's house, and
stammer, "Marr's murderer is there." It was
not twelve o'clock yet, and several persons soon
assembled: two of the most resolute, men named
Ludgate and Hawse, armed themselves with iron
crows, and broke open the door. They found
the bodies of Mrs. Williamson, and the servant
Bridget Harrington, with the throats cut, near the
fireplace in the parlour. In the cellar they
discovered the body of the landlord, which
had been thrown down-stairs. He had
defended himself with an iron bar wrenched
from the cellar window; his hands were cut
and hacked, his leg was broken, and his throat
was cut. The little grandchild was discovered
tranquilly asleep. A rush was then made
behind, where a noise was heard of somebody
forcing windows.; and as the door was forced,
a man leaped out, crashing down the glass and
window-frame. There was behind the house
a large piece of waste ground with a clay