to be flush of money. Says I, 'What
would you advise me to do with it?'
'Why,' says he, 'you might have thrown it
down the sink, or have burnt it, but
give it me, and I'll take care of it;' and so I
gave it him. Mr. Alstone then brought me to
the condemned hold, and examined me; I
denied all, till I found he heard of the money,
and then I knew my life was gone; and therefore
I confessed all that I knew; I gave him
the same account of the robbers as I have given
now. I told him I heard my masters were to be
shot, and I desired him to send them word. I
described Tracey and the two Alexanders, and
when they were first taken, they denied that
they knew Mr. Oaks, whom they and I had
agreed to rob.

"All that I have now declared is fact, and I
have no occasion to murder three persons on a
false accusation; for I know I am a condemned
woman, I know I must suffer an ignominious
death which my crimes deserve, and I shall
suffer willingly. I thank God that he has given
me time to repent, when I might have been
snatched off in the midst of my crimes, and
without having an opportunity of preparing
myself for another world."

The jury then withdrew, and in about a
quarter of an hour brought in their verdict:
Guilty. Death.

That Sarah Malcolm's defence was a gross
tissue of lies, there can be no doubt. It is possible
that some of her disreputable friends in
Shoreditch and at the Black Horse may have
suggested the robbery to her; but there can be no
doubt that she alone stole the money found
hidden in her hair, and that she alone perpetrated
in cold blood the three cruel murders.
The clothes she secreted were stained with
blood; the broken white-handled case-knife
with which she cut Nanny's throat, was seen
lying on Mrs. Duncomb's table when the
women obtained access to the room; but some
one, probably the prisoner, removed it unobserved.
No strangers had passed the porter of
the Temple that night, but only gentlemen going
to their chambers. Sarah Malcolm, having
been a servant to the old lady, knew where the
money was placed, and only a month before the
murder Mrs. Love was with Mrs. Duncomb,
when she (the prisoner) came prying about
under pretence of looking for the key of her
master's chambers. She knew all the locks, and
could have got in, either through Mr. Grisly's
unoccupied chamber, or by slipping back the
spring lock of Mrs. Duncomb's door that
stormy midnight, when all the watchmen were
skulking and dosing under pent-houses, and
when the old lady and her two servants were
buried in their first sleep; or she might have
hidden till after dark in the empty chambers.
Her confession may be partly true—
for even the liar finds it easier and better
to build on some slight platform of truth;
she may have come back about half-past ten,
may have really met the maid with the blue
mug going for the milk for the sack posset, may
have slipped in at the door, left ajar, and
hidden herself under the bed. Or, it is not
unlikely that she met the maid and asked her,
on some plea or other, to give her a share
of her bed; then, in the middle of the night,
murdered, first the poor friendly girl, and afterwards
the old lady and her servant, Mrs. Betty.

While waiting for death, Sarah Malcolm's
conduct was like that often shown by criminals
hoping for a reprieve, trusting to the effect
of false charges and the weakness and
uncertainty that always hangs over circumstantial
evidence. She gave way to paroxysms of fear,
assumed penitence, sham illness, alternately with
the reckless effrontery of a depraved woman.

She tried every avenue of escape in her struggles
for life. She preached, cried, supplicated,
fell into fits, loudly asserted her innocence,
prayed, treated the younger felons to rum, or
exhorted them to repentance. As soon as she was
brought back to Newgate, she cried out, "I am a
dead woman!" She was placed in the old
condemned hold, with a person to watch her day and
night, from an apprehension that she would take
away her own life. Then she began to fall into
hysterical fits, rolling her eyes and clenching her
hands. When Mr. Kerrel came to see her, she
fell and clung to the keeper's feet, so that the
turnkeys could scarcely remove her.

A contemporaneous account says:

"When she was informed that Mary Tracey
and the two Alexanders were seized, she
appeared pleased, and smiled, saying, with
seeming satisfaction, 'I shall die now with pleasure,
since the murderers are taken.' When the
two young men—almost boys—and the woman
were shown to her, that she might see whether
they were the persons whom she accused,
she immediately said: 'Ay, these are the
persons who committed the murder.' And
said to Tracey, 'You know this to be true,'
which she pronounced with a boldness that
surprised all who were present. Addressing
her again, she said, 'See, Mary, what
you have brought me to; and it is through
you and the two Alexanders that I am brought
to this shame, and must die for it; you all
promised me you would do no murder, but to
my great surprise I found the contrary.'"

According to the heartless system of the
time, Sarah Malcolm became a show to all
the quidnuncs, loungers, and sight-seers of
London. Some gentleman in the press-yard
importuning her (imagine the state of prison
discipline at this time!) to make a frank
discovery, the murderess answered fiercely:

"After I have been some time in the grave,
it will be all found out."

On another occasion, some people of fashion
asking her if she was settled in her mind, and
resolved to make no further confession, she
replied that, as she was not concerned in the
murder, she hoped God would accept her life
as a satisfaction for her manifold sins. She
was still clinging to a hope of reprieve, and, to
obtain that, would willingly have sent a dozen
innocent people to the gibbet.