10/23/2026
Murder at the Opera House
The story as told by the victim of the tragedy: David R. Allen
As the great bard William Shakespeare wrote: "All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players: they have their exits and their entrances."
My name is David R. Allen and my “entrance” to this world was in 1828 in Ireland. But Ireland was not to be the stage upon which my life was played. When I was a very young lad, my parents brought me to the land of opportunity as we made our way to New York City. In my early years, I could be found at the stage doors of the old Park and Bowery theaters where I quickly developed a taste for drama. And from that point on, I enjoyed quite an adventurous life.
While I played many parts over the years, my more natural inclinations were to business, so I was more often thought of as a manager than an actor. My career was not destined to be in New York, however. In 1856, I took on the role of manager of the great Southern Circuit with headquarters in Richmond, Virginia. It was here that I met Olivia Walton Jones, a young southern lady suffering from a severe attack of “Stage Fever”. Not only did I add her to our troupe of actors, I also married her. We enjoyed our travels entertaining audiences in cities such as Richmond, Charleston, Savannah, and Mobile.
While we were warmly received by the people of the south, war loomed on the horizon.
When the Civil War started, we returned to work in northern theaters throughout the conflict. 1865 saw the end of the war as well as my theatrical partnership with my wife as she made her way west to Chicago while I remained in Massachusetts and acted with Junius Brutus Booth at Booth’s Boston Theater. I, myself, eventually made my way to Chicago, but the separation caused irreparable damage to our marriage and sadly, we made the decision to divorce.
It was in Chicago that I took on the largest endeavor of my career – rebuilding a theatre and organizing a company. The Chicago Tribune covered my activities with avid interest:
It was characteristic of Mr. Allen, and of the indomitable perseverance and enterprise he has manifested in pushing through this enterprise to a successful completion in the face of so many obstacles, that he opened his theatre without the customary flourish of trumpets in the shape of speech-making. In November of 1870, the curtain rose at the appointed time, and the play commenced. This showed independence and good taste, and the result soon proved that the new theatre could well afford to stand upon its merits without any preliminary craving of the indulgence of its patrons; for a better stock company than that which Mr. Allen has selected, is not to be seen in any other theatre in the city at present.
During this busy time, I found happiness in my second marriage to another actress (Miss Hicks), but she was taken from me by Yellow Fever while on tour in Florida. Then came the Great Chicago Fire in October 1871. While the theatre was spared from the fire, I could not meet the financial burden I had undertaken to build it. As the Chicago Tribune stated in October 1872: the Globe Theatre had run through various vicissitudes of fortune, and had succeeded in speedily wrecking every manager who took hold of it, Mr. Allen, formerly of the Museum Company, being the last who went under.
I returned to working with various theatrical companies in Chicago. It was difficult to find work and the notices in the papers were extremely harsh. I was described as having been termed in the profession as a “fakir” as my “bibulous” habits never allowed me to gain any prominence as an actor. While others felt I had a better head for business than acting, I could never hold on to success for long.
I and my new wife Mary Davenport felt it was time to move to greener pastures and return to our roots, which had brought us triumph in the past – traveling acting companies.
In 1883, we signed with the Company of Irish comedian John F. Ward, my role was manager as well as supporting actor while my wife was to be the leading lady. We were producing the light-hearted comedy “Top O’ The Morning” written by Ward. And this is where my story brings me to Vicksburg, Mississippi.
We were looking forward to opening at the Opera House on November 14, 1883, but our light-hearted comedy was preceded by some rather dramatic events. I had hired an advance agent for our company…a handsome looking young fellow named Frank E. Starke. He hailed from Cincinnati and came from a well-known and reputable family. His grandfather was the late T.F. Eckert, a prominent western Steamboatman and President of the Cincinnati Board of Underwriters. He was well-educated, but had not found the world of business to his liking and preferred the society of theatrical people. He was due to inherit a comfortable sum from his mother’s estate, but would not receive it until his younger sister came of age. The fifty dollar monthly stipend from the estate did not meet his needs as he enjoyed fine clothes and the company of women of a certain profession. He became the “best friend” of one of the girls by the name of Lelia and eventually took her from the house where she worked and stated he had married her. With his handsome presentation and polished manners, we hoped he would be an asset as our advance agent; however, that was not to be and I had to discharge him from his position a few days before our arrival in Vicksburg.
On opening night, my wife and I were in our dressing room preparing for the stage when Frank entered the room. He had obviously been drinking and presented with quite a belligerent stance. He began quarreling over my treatment of him and pulled a pistol. My courageous wife admonished him to put the pistol up and attempted to seize the weapon, but he je**ed it away saying “he would pull it out at any time and use it too”. When he started to use crude language, I took him by the shoulders and shoved him out in the hallway. At which point he turned and fired the pistol.
George James, a member of the company rushed from his dressing room and caught Frank, but he was able to fire two more rounds.
As the newspaper would describe in the next day’s edition, “The scene behind stage beggared description”. My poor dear wife was found hanging over my body and begging someone to tell her I was not dead and calling me in tones of endearment to answer her. But I was not able to respond. Having been struck by three bullets, the second entering my heart, I was gone before I could say any tender goodbyes to my beloved.
Frank was quickly arrested while my wife was left to pick up the pieces of our shattered life. She purchased a plot in the beautiful city cemetery here in Vicksburg where I would be laid to rest and awaited the dispensing of justice to the villain, who stole my life.
But we were not to have justice. It pays to have friends in high places and very quickly a high-powered lawyer from Cincinnati descended on the city and not only convinced the judge to grant Frank bail until his trial, his team was able to convince a jury that my shoving him out of the dressing room caused him to fear for his life and he fired his pistol in self-defense at an unarmed man.
Not only my wife, but many people in Vicksburg were incensed by this miscarriage of justice.
An editorial posted after Frank was granted bail in The Vicksburg Post summed up the opinions of the people in the city:
We have no personal feelings against Starke; it is only a desire to see the terrible crime of murder checked; a desire for peace and protection of human life, that causes us to regret the decision…the moral effect will not be beneficial to this community.
Frank walked away a free man while I lay not quite at peace within the rolling hills of Cedar Hill Cemetery. In a dramatic theatrical turn, the location of my grave in these hills has become shrouded in mystery and has been lost to the ages. As you walk among those beautiful hills, if you feel inspired to quote Shakespeare or possibly take a more comedic turn with an Irish accent, you might well be nearing my final resting place where the show may still go on.
Script written by Therese Winschel
