The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte

by James Tully

  Mr Nicholls told me that he was surprised that he suffered no doubts or misgivings once he had decided to murder his tormentor. His Faith had never been strong but, in any case, with Master Branwell seemingly bent upon destroying himself, it seemed that what he had in mind was really a kind of mercy. Anyway, he felt he deserved to die.

  Mr Nicholls had disliked Master Branwell on sight for what he was although, oddly enough, he had been somewhat jealous of his popularity and some of his ways when in company. However, the dislike had deepened gradually as he came to realize that Master Branwell and his friends were laughing at him behind his back, and I can vouch for that because many was the time when Father mimicked him and made us all laugh,

  Then Mr Nicholls learned a great deal of what had really happened at Thorp Green Hall, and that sickened him. Dislike had become hatred as Master Branwell’s goings-on became worse, and the blackmail started, until the time came when Mr Nicholls loathed the sight, smell and sound of him. Master Branwell had come to stand for everything that Mr Nicholls hated and despised – but above all he feared him for the harm he could do.

  I once asked Mr Nicholls why he had thought it necessary to kill him, thus putting his own life and soul in peril, when, as we all knew, Master Branwell was slowly killing himself. He looked at me a little sadly, and then said something like: ‘But that was the whole point, Martha my dear, he was doing it slowly. Left to his own devices, he might have gone on for years, and that was something that I could not bear to think about.’ Of course he was right, and I felt a little foolish for asking.

  Having decided what he was going to do, Mr Nicholls wasted no time in putting his plan into action. On Friday, 22nd September, 1848, Master Branwell was out and about in the village, and very much his usual self. The next day, though, he was forced to take to his bed – which, in itself, was not unusual for him – but by Sunday morning he was dead!

  As Mr Nicholls had supposed, nobody was surprised by his sudden passing, and the village doctor, Dr Wheelhouse, signed the death certificate without a second thought, although Father, who knew about such matters, was of a mind that a postmortem examination should have taken place.

  Master Branwell was buried in his father’s Church. I was not allowed to go to the funeral, but Father did and he said that it was very moving, and that there were a fair few folk there. What surprised many though was that, of his three sisters, only Miss Emily went. Miss Charlotte said that she was ill, and Miss Anne made the excuse that she had to stay home to look after her.

  I did not hear any of that until after the funeral, and so I wondered why they were not there instead of sitting at home whispering together. I saw no signs of Miss Charlotte being ill, and certainly she never took to her bed. Even if she had, there were enough of us in the Parsonage to have seen to her wants for the short time the service took without Miss Anne staying away as well.

  I thought it all very sad.

  [] Writer after writer states that Branwell died from tuberculosis – more commonly known as ‘consumption’ at that time. That, however, just is not true, and is yet another example of how the accepted Brontë legend feeds upon itself. I have a copy of Branwell’s death certificate before me as I write, and it gives ‘Chronic Bronchitis, Marasmus’ as the causes of death.

  Now I must confess that, although I am an amateur criminologist, the medical condition of ‘Marasmus’ was not one with which I was familiar. It necessitated reference to a reputable medical dictionary. The definition given therein was ‘A progressive wasting, when there is no ascertainable cause’. (My italics.) It was not until much later that a pathologist friend of mine told me that ‘Marasmus’ is one of those high-sounding terms employed by doctors when they really have no idea of from what a person has died!

  That same friend and I have given a great deal of thought to what substance Nicholls may have used if, in fact, Branwell Brontë was poisoned.

  Obviously, the first one at which we looked was laudanum, otherwise known as tincture of opium, because it is well documented that Branwell was addicted to it, and addicts can, within moderation, drink it like wine – the only effect being one of stimulation. In those days it was said to be a preventive against consumption, and it was also used widely as a sedative, even for babies.

  For Arthur Nicholls, the advantages of administering an overdose of laudanum would have been that it was widely available, cheap, easily administered and left no odour on the breath. Also laudanum has other important properties. A lethal dose does not cause death until seven to eighteen hours after being taken, and the effects may be postponed for several hours more if it is taken with alcohol.

  How very easy it would have been. Branwell would drink anything alcoholic, especially if it was free, and so all that Nicholls would have had to do was wait until he was approached for more money and then offer his victim, say, a few brandies which were laced liberally with the drug. Branwell would have been appreciative of the drink, and Nicholls would have had ample time to be elsewhere when death occurred.

  Could he have used arsenic? Again, it is a possibility. It would have fitted the bill almost as well as laudanum, and better in some respects, but we shall discuss poisons later, and in more depth.

  I consider it of great importance that I have been unable to discover any mention of Branwell being ill just before his death, except that he had a cough. Indeed, on 9 October 1848, Charlotte wrote to Ellen Nussey saying that ‘neither the doctor or Branwell himself thought him to be so close to death’. (My italics.) Yet, even so, the good doctor did not see fit to arrange an autopsy. He merely fudged the death certificate, and Arthur Nicholls and the Brontë family breathed a collective sigh of relief – albeit for different reasons.

  Following her brother’s death, Charlotte was instantly, and very conveniently, stricken with ‘bilious fever’, and was therefore, she said, too ill to attend Branwell’s funeral.

  As Martha has told us, Anne did not go either. Such behaviour was only what one would have expected in the light of their opinions of their brother, and despite some of the hypocritical terms in which Charlotte wrote about him after his death. Compare her letter to Ellen, of 4 November 1845: ‘I wish I could say one word to you in his favour . . .’ with that to W.S. Williams, of 6 October 1848: ‘When I looked on the noble face and forehead of my dead brother . . .’ and one sees vintage Charlotte.

  However, many were genuinely grieved by his death. Emily wrote a moving poem about him which she called ‘The Wanderer from the Fold’, and in later years his friends were at pains to correct the erroneous portrait which had been painted of him by Mrs Gaskell. Leyland and George Searle Phillips testified to his lively conversation, his wit, his poetry, and his thoughtful discourse. Phillips also contradicted Mrs Gaskell point blank: ‘But, even when pretty deep in his cups, he had not the slightest appearance of the sot Mrs Gaskell says he was.’ It was a description which she probably obtained from Nicholls.

  I think we should allow another friend to have the final word on Branwell, for I feel it to be the truest. Grundy wrote that Branwell ‘was no domestic demon; he was just a man moving in a mist who lost his way.’

  Chapter Six

  ‘My punishment is greater than I can bear.’

  Genesis 4:13

  Miss Emily, then, was the only sister who went to Master Branwell’s funeral. Being the woman she was, she would have done so anyway, but I know now that by then her feelings were so mixed up that she could never have stayed away.

  She already felt guilty about stealing his idea for her book, but now she was burdened by something far more terrible, for she had found out that her lover had murdered her brother. (How I know of this, I shall tell later.)

  Mr Nicholls has since told me that it was not his intent that she should know anything about what he had in mind, for he knew that nobody could be trusted with that kind of secret. He had therefore gone about his plan with care and very quietly.

  After much thought, he had decided that the only
way to kill Master Branwell was by means of poison, but knowing that to buy it in Haworth was out of the question he went to Halifax to do so, and did it under another name and dressed as quietly as possible. In order to account for his absence, he had given it out that he was going to visit his friend, Mr Grant, who was the curate in the next parish, but he was undone by one of those strange chances that no one can foresee.

  It so happened that Master Branwell was drinking in Halifax that day and he, of all people, saw Mr Nicholls coming out of the apothecary. He was forced to return to the Parsonage sooner than he had reckoned, because he had run out of cash and credit, but even so he was well drunk and had to be helped upstairs by Miss Emily. She asked him where he had been to get in such a state, and he told her Halifax – but then went on to say, with a laugh, that he had seen her sweetheart coming from the apothecary’s shop there, and that he was not wearing his normal clergyman’s garb.

  Of course, Miss Emily did not believe him, thinking that what he had said was just part of his drunken ramblings, but a little doubt must have stayed in her mind because I remember that much later she asked me if I had seen Mr Nicholls about on the day before and how he was dressed. I had not, because I would have been busy about the Parsonage, but I thought that her questions were so strange that, in a roundabout way, I quizzed Mother that evening and she told me that he had gone out in clothes that we had all seen hanging in his wardrobe, but had seen him wear but a few times before.

  I told that to Miss Emily, but she did not seem very interested and said that her questions to me had been only in passing. However, I know now that she had been both puzzled and worried. Her first thought had been that Mr Nicholls was ailing and, not wishing to worry her, had gone to an apothecary outside the village for some medicine. It would seem that she did not mention the matter to him straightaway. She merely asked him how he had got on with Mr Grant, and he told her that he had spent a pleasant day with him. He said nothing more, but his answer, and the manner of it, lulled any worries which she had.

  It would seem, therefore, that it was only when Master Branwell died so quickly and unexpectedly, and within but a few days of Mr Nicholls’ day out, that her mind went to another possibility and she began to think with dread of what he might have done. It was a notion that so took hold of her mind that she was not able to rest until she had found the truth, and it was then that, I realize now, I was once again caught up in the matter – albeit without knowing.

  On the evening of the day of Master Branwell’s death, Miss Emily took me to one side as I was washing the dishes. She was far from her usual self, and spoke in such a low voice that I wondered what was amiss, but she simply took an envelope from her pocket and said that she had an urgent message from her father for Mr Nicholls, and would I run home and hand it to him without delay.

  I was somewhat puzzled by that, because I had carried messages from Mr Brontë to Mr Nicholls several times before, and to Father, but he had always handed them to me himself. Also, the name of the person that the letter was to had always been written on the envelope whereas there was no name on this one, and indeed it did not look or feel like one of Mr Brontë’s which were bigger and stiffer. Still it was none of my business, and I remember thinking that Mr Brontë may have been so upset by his son’s death that he had had Miss Emily write his message for him.

  I hurried down the lane to our house, went to Mr Nicholls’ room and handed the letter to him. He did not open the envelope in front of me, but within minutes I heard the back door close and he went out. I thought that he was going to the Parsonage to see Mr Brontë, but then, as I was taking the chance of a quick word with Mother in the kitchen, I saw him making his way to the moors and it came to me that he was off to meet Miss Emily.

  Of course, I have been able to put these happenings together in proper fashion only since I learned the full truth, but even then I thought it all rather odd.

  I know now that it was at that meeting that Miss Emily taxed Mr Nicholls about her fears that he had murdered her brother. He has told me that what she said shook him to his core, but that he was able to manage a laugh and tell her not to be so silly. It was only when she told him that he had been seen leaving the apothecary’s at Halifax – without saying who had seen him – that he was forced, little by little, into telling the truth. Only later did she tell him that it was Master Branwell himself who had pointed the finger at him.

  Mr Nicholls has told me that, at first, he had wanted to lie and say that he had been to the apothecary for some sort of potion for himself, and he thinks that he might have got away with that. However, he was thrown into such a state of mind by her unexpected questions that all he could think of at the time was that if she went to the authorities with her fears he would soon be identified by the man who had served him. Then, if Master Branwell’s body was dug up and the same poison found as he had bought, he would be sure to be hanged.

  Only after he had told her all did he realize that he had been in no danger, because then it was evident that Miss Emily’s passion for him would not have allowed her to betray him. He was quite right in thinking that for I now know that Miss Emily told Miss Anne as much, and that she, poor woman, was being torn asunder by her feelings, and that she would never be able to live at ease with the fact that the man she loved had killed her brother.

  People have always said that Miss Emily caught a chill at Master Branwell’s funeral, but I do not recall any such thing. All I know is that she became very, very quiet after it and only pecked at her food, like an ailing sparrow. They also say that she never left the Parsonage again until her own death some 3 months later, but that also is wrong, as anyone who knew Miss Emily well will tell you.

  As I remember it, she did have a bit of a cough, but nothing that troubled her overmuch, and I know for sure that she carried on meeting Mr Nicholls for at least a month after Master Branwell died because he has told me so and he has no reason to lie at this distance of time. He said that she seemed to need to talk to him because she was finding it very hard to live with what she knew, especially as she was not sleeping well because of her cough, and her darkest thoughts came in the small hours.

  For his part, though, Mr Nicholls has never shown any sense of regret to me. He says that, as far as he was concerned, what was done was done. Nothing could have brought Master Branwell back, and it was good riddance to bad rubbish. He found it impossible to understand how Miss Emily was feeling, and often he had little patience with her.

  When he was like that, it dismayed Miss Emily beyond belief. It was a side of him that she had not seen before, and it was then that she came to believe that he was tiring of her and was carrying on with her just to keep her quiet. If that was so, it is little wonder, I feel, that she drew more and more into herself. Not only that, but she began to act so oddly that Miss Charlotte became concerned about her, even taking the trouble to remark upon it to me – of all people. I think that, knowing that Miss Emily often talked to me, she was hoping that I knew something, but even if I had I would not have told her.

  As it happens, I now know that Miss Emily had felt the need to tell someone of what ailed her. That someone was Miss Anne, who wrote down everything, which, as I shall explain, I have read myself.

  I do not think that Miss Anne would have been as shocked by what she learned as most folk would imagine. In fact, I doubt very much whether she would have been shocked at all. She, more than anybody, knew what Master Branwell had been up to at the Robinsons, and that is almost certainly why she felt she had to leave her post there with so little warning. His conduct had dismayed and horrified her, and she felt no pity for him whatsoever. Since then she had been sickened by the way he was going on, so why then should she have been put out when she discovered that someone had helped him to the early death that he was heading for anyway? I think that her main feeling was more likely to have been one of amazement – amazement that it was Mr Nicholls who had done the deed, and amazement that her quiet sister was carrying o
n with him.

  As for Miss Emily herself, Miss Anne tells us that she seemed to feel better after their first talk, but then she became far worse for, as well as her old worries, she was then bothered because she had told all to Miss Anne, and time after time she begged her to say naught to anyone.

  There is a saying that it never rains but that it pours, and often I have thought that Miss Emily must have had that feeling if what Miss Anne wrote next is true.

  As I have said, by then Miss Emily and Mr Nicholls had been lovers in the fullest manner for the best part of a 12-month, and so it was almost certain that, sooner or later, the time would come when she would have reason to think that she might be with child. That time came now, and it drove Miss Emily to the point of madness.

  She seems to have kept her fears to herself for as long as possible, but the time came when she just had to tell Mr Nicholls, and he was shocked to the core. He has made it clear to me that by that time he was already tired of Miss Emily and her worries, and he had never had any notion of being tied to her. Now he felt that she was a threat to him and his future, and although he had some choices none of them was very pleasing to him.

  He could, of course, have accepted things and wed her, but that prospect filled him with horror because, tired of her as he already was, he could not face the notion of being married to her – and with a child to boot. Even putting his feelings to one side, his pay was quite small in his eyes, and he knew of others who were finding it hard beyond belief to support a wife and family on such a pittance.