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ONE drizzly November morning —
how well I remember it! — I was
awakened by a series of nervous
raps on my bed-room door. The
noise startled me from an unpleasant
dream.

“O, sir!” cried the chamber-maid
on the landing, “There's
been a dreadful time across the street. They've
gone and killed Mary Ware!”

“Ah!”

That was all I could say. Cold drops of
perspiration stood on my forehead.

I looked at my watch; it was eleven o'clock;

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I had over-slept myself, having sat up late the
previous night.

I dressed hastily, and, without waiting for
breakfast, pushed my way through the murky
crowd that had collected in front of the house
opposite, and passed up stairs, unquestioned.

When I entered the room, there were six people
present: a thick-set gentleman, in black, with a
bland professional air, a physician; two policemen;
Adelaide Woods, an actress; Mrs. Marston, the
landlady; and Julius Kenneth.

In the centre of the chamber, on the bed, lay
the body of Mary Ware — as pale as Seneca's
wife.

I shall never forget it. The corse haunted me
for years afterwards, the dark streaks under the
eyes, and the wavy hair streaming over the
pillow — the dead gold hair. I stood by her for
a moment, and turned down the counterpane,
which was drawn up closely to the chin.

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At the head of the bed sat Julius Kenneth,
bending over the icy hand which he held in his
own. He was kissing it.

The gentleman in black was conversing in
undertones with Mrs. Marston, who every now
and then glanced furtively toward Mary Ware.

The two policemen were examining the doors,
closets and windows of the apartment with,
obviously, little success.

There was no fire in the air-tight stove, but the
place was suffocatingly close. I opened a window,
and leaned against the casement to get a breath
of fresh air.

The physician approached me. I muttered
something to him indistinctly, for I was partly
sick with the peculiar mouldy smell that pervaded
the room.

“Yes,” he began, scrutinizing me, “the affair
looks very perplexing, as you remark. Professional
man, sir? No? Bless me! — beg pardon.
Never in my life saw anything that looked so
exceedingly like nothing. Thought, at first, 'twas

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a clear case of suicide — door locked, key on the
inside, place undisturbed; but then we find no
instrument with which the subject could have
inflicted that wound on the neck. Queer. Party
must have escaped up chimney. But how?
Don't know. The windows are at least thirty
feet from the ground. It would be impossible for
a person to jump that far, even if he could clear
the iron railing below. Which he could'nt.
Disagreeable things to jump on, those spikes, sir.
Must have been done with a sharp knife. Queer,
very. Party meant to make sure work of it.
The carotid neatly severed, upon my word.”

The medical gentleman went on in this monologuic
style for fifteen minutes, during which time
Kenneth did not raise his lips from Mary's fingers.

Approaching the bed, I spoke to him; but he
only shook his head in reply.

I understood his grief.

After regaining my chamber, I sat listlessly for
three or four hours, gazing into the grate. The
twilight flitted in from the street; but I did not

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heed it. A face among the coals fascinated me.
It came and went and came. Now I saw a cavern
hung with lurid stalactites; now a small Vesuvius
vomiting smoke and flame; now a bridge spanning
some tartarean gulf; then these crumbled, each
in its turn, and from out the heated fragments
peered the one inevitable face.

The Evening Mirror, of that day, gave the
following detailed report of the inquest:

“This morning, at eight o'clock, Mary Ware,
the celebrated danseuse, was found dead in her
chamber, at her late residence on the corner of
Clarke and Crandall streets. The perfect order
of the room, and the fact that the door was locked
on the inside, have induced many to believe that
the poor girl was the victim of her own rashness.
But we cannot think so. That the door was
fastened on the inner side, proves nothing except,
indeed, that the murderer was hidden in the
apartment. That the room gave no evidence of a
struggle having taken place, is also an insignificant

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point. Two men, or even one, grappling suddenly
with the deceased, who was a slight woman, would
have prevented any great resistance. The deceased
was dressed in a ballet-costume, and was,
as we conjecture, murdered directly after her
return from the theatre. On a chair near the
bed, lay several fresh bouquets, and a water-proof
cloak which she was in the habit of wearing over
her dancing-dress, on coming home from the
theatre at night. No weapon whatever was found
on the premises. We give below all the material
testimony elicited by the coroner. It explains
little.

“Josephine Marston deposes: I keep a boarding
house at No. 131 Crandall street. Miss Ware
has boarded with me for the past two years. Has
always borne a good character as far as I know.
I do not think she had many visitors; certainly no
male visitors, excepting a Lieutenant King, and
Mr. Kenneth to whom she was engaged. I do
not know when King was last at the house; not
within three days, I am confident. Deceased told

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me that he had gone away. I did not see her
last night when she came home. The hall-door is
never locked; each of the boarders has a latchkey.
The last time I saw Miss Ware was just
before she went to the theatre, when she asked me
to call her at eight o'clock (this morning) as she
had promised to walk with `Jules,' meaning Mr.
Kenneth. I knocked at the door nine or ten
times, but received no answer. Then I grew
frightened and called one of the lady boarders,
Miss Woods, who helped me to force the lock.
The key fell on the floor inside as we pushed
against the door. Mary Ware was lying on the
bed, dressed. Some matches were scattered under
the gas-burner by the bureau. The room presented
the same appearance it does now.

“Adelaide Woods deposes: I am an actress by
profession. I occupy the room next to that of the
deceased. Have known her twelve months. It
was half-past eleven when she came home; she
stopped in my chamber for perhaps three-quarters
of an hour. The call-boy of The Olympic usually

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accompanies her home from the theatre when she
is alone. I let her in. Deceased had misplaced
her night-key. The partition between our rooms
is of brick; but I do not sleep soundly, and should
have heard any unusual noise. Two weeks ago,
Miss Ware told me she was to be married to Mr.
Kenneth in January next. The last time I saw
them together was the day before yesterday. I
assisted Mrs Marston in breaking open the door.
[Describes the position of the body, etc., etc.]

“Here the call-boy was summoned, and testified
to accompanying the deceased home the night
before. He came as far as the steps with her.
The door was opened by a woman; could not
swear it was Miss Woods, though he knows her
by sight. The night was dark, and there was no
lamp burning in the entry.

“Julius Kenneth deposes: I am a mastermachinist.
Reside at No. — Forsythe street.
Miss Ware was my cousin. We were engaged
to be married next — [Here the witness' voice
failed him.] The last time I saw her was on

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Wednesday morning, on which occasion we walked
out together. I did not leave my room last
evening: was confined by a severe cold. A
Lieutenant King used to visit my cousin frequently;
it created considerable talk in the
neighborhood: I did not like it, and requested
her to break the acquaintance. She informed me,
Wednesday, that King had been ordered to some
foreign station, and would trouble me no more
Was excited at the time, hinted at being tired of
living; then laughed, and was gayer than she had
been for weeks. Deceased was subject to fits of
depression. She had engaged to walk with me
this morning at eight. When I reached Clark
street I learned that she — [Here the witness,
overcome by emotion, was allowed to retire.]

“Dr. Wren deposes: [This gentleman was
very learned and voluble, and had to be suppressed
several times by the coroner. We furnish
a brief synopsis of his testimony.] I was called
in to view the body of the deceased. A deep
incision on the throat, two inches below the

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lefear, severing the left common carotid and the
internal jugular vein, had been inflicted with some
sharp instrument. Such a wound would, in my
opinion, produce death almost instantaneously.
The body bore no other signs of violence. A slight
mark, almost indistinguishable, in fact, extended
from the upper lip toward the right nostril —
some hurt, I suppose, received in infancy. Deceased
must have been dead a number of hours,
the rigor mortis having already supervened,
etc., etc.

“Dr. Ceccarini corroborated the above testimony.

“The night-watchman and seven other persons
were then placed on the stand; but their statements
threw no fresh light on the case.

“The situation of Julius Kenneth, the lover of
the ill-fated girl, draws forth the deepest commiseration.
Miss Ware was twenty-four years
of age.

“Who the criminal is, and what could have
led to the perpetration of the cruel act, are

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questions which, at present, threaten to baffle the
sagacity of the police. If such deeds can be
committed with impunity in a crowded city, like
this, who is safe from the assassin's steel?”

p448-111

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