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Updated: June 9, 2025
It was Mary Strugnell; who, when in a state of intoxication, had fallen down in front of a carriage, as she was crossing near Holborn Hill, and had both her legs broken. She was dying miserably, and had sent for me to make a full confession relative to Wilson's murder. Armstrong's account was perfectly correct.
Presently some one asked if any body had seen Mrs. Strugnell? The question roused Armstrong, and he said, "She is not come home: her door is locked." "How do you know that?" cried the constable, turning sharply round, and looking keenly in his face. "How do you know that?" "Because because," stammered Armstrong, "because she always locks it when she goes out." "Which is her room?"
"The next to this." They hastened out, and found the next door was fast. "Are you there, Mrs. Strugnell?" shouted Johnson. There was no reply. "She is never home till half-past ten o'clock on Sunday evenings," remarked Armstrong in a calmer voice. "The key is in the lock on the inside," cried a young man who had been striving to peep through the key-hole.
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