THE "EVENING MOON" SPEAKS ITS MIND.
Yesterday, at the Martin Street Police Court, Antony Cowlrick was
brought up for the seventh time, on the charge of being concerned in
the mysterious murder which took place at No. 119, Great Porter Square.
The remarks we have from time to time made upon this case and upon
the arrest of Antony Cowlrick have been justified by the result. The
prisoner was finally discharged. All that was wanted to complete the
tragical farce was a caution from the magistrate to the prisoner not to
do it again.
We now intend to speak plainly; and the strong interest the case has
excited will be our excuse if our comments are more lengthy than those
in which we generally indulge in our editorial columns. The elements
of mystery surrounding the awful murder were sufficiently complicated
without the assistance of the police. Their proceedings with respect
to the man calling himself Antony Cowlrick have rendered the task of
bringing the murderer to justice one of enormous difficulty.
Our business at present is not so much with the murder itself as it is
with Antony Cowlrick and the police; but a brief recapitulation of the
circumstances of the murder is necessary for the proper understanding of
what is to follow.
On Tuesday, the 1st of July, a gentleman engaged a back room on the
first floor of the house No. 119, Great Porter Square. There was a piano
in the room. The landlady of that house, who has undergone more than one
lengthy examination, has stated that she "reckoned him up" as a man who
had just come from a voyage, and that there was something superior "in
the looks of him." When she asked him for his name he said it did not
matter, and he handed her four weeks' rent, telling her at the same time
not to trouble herself about a receipt. This was sufficient for the
landlady; she received the stranger as a tenant, and he took possession
of the room.
He led a remarkably quiet life. He did not trouble the landlady to cook
a meal for him, although "attendance" was included in the sum charged
for the rent of the room. He had but one visitor, a lady, who came so
closely veiled that no person in the house caught a glimpse of her face.
She called three times, and when the street door was opened, asked for
"the gentleman on the first floor," and went up to him without waiting
for an answer. This lady has not come forward, and she has not been
tracked. After the 10th of July no female resembling in the slightest
the vague description given of her has called at No. 119, Great Porter
Square.
It happened, singularly enough, that on the 9th of July the house was
almost empty. The landlady's niece was married on that day, and the
landlady was at the wedding; there was to be a dance in the evening, and
she did not expect to be home until very late. Invitations had not only
been given to the landlady, but to three of her lodgers, two of whom
were married. Another lodger, a violin player, was engaged for the
music. It was a kind of happy family affair, arranged by Fate. Only the
general servant and the stranger were left.
The servant was human, and took advantage of the golden opportunity. If
we had been in her place, and had "a young man," we should probably have
done the same. She did not have many holidays, and knowing that her
services would not be required, and that her mistress and the lodger
would not be home till early in the morning, she made an appointment
with her "young man," who treated her to the Alhambra. When the
performances at the Alhambra were concluded, this young person and her
young man indulged in supper, and, tempted to daring by the opportunity,
she did not return to the house until an hour past midnight. She noticed
nothing unusual when she entered; conscience-stricken at the late hour
she did not light a candle, but thankful that her mistress had not
returned, she crept down to her bedroom in the basement, and went to
bed in the dark. She fell asleep at once, and we have the testimony of
her mistress that the girl is an exceedingly heavy sleeper, and most
difficult to wake. We ourselves have a servant--a most desirable
creature, whom we are ready to part with on moderate terms--similarly
afflicted. Thus it may be said that, for many mysterious hours, the
only occupant of the house was the stranger who occupied the front
drawing-room.
It was nearly four in the morning before the wedding guests, jaded with
pleasure, found themselves in Great Porter Square. The wedding had been
a jolly affair, and dancing had been prolonged beyond the anticipated
hour of breaking up. Jaded as they were, the spirits of the little knot
of merrymakers were not quite exhausted, and as they paused before the
door of No. 119, with the morning's sweet fresh light upon them, they
laughed and sang, and so inspired the musician that he took his violin
from its green baize bag and struck up a jig. With their tired feet
moving to the measure they entered the house, the door of which was
opened by the landlady with her private key; they tripped up the steps
and lingered in the passage, dancing to the music. Exhilarated by the
occasion they wound in and out along the narrow passage, until the wife
of one of the lodgers suddenly uttered a shriek which drove the colour
from their flushed faces.
"My God!" shrieked the terrified woman, "we are dancing in blood!"
[Decoration]