The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte

by James Tully

  I rushed and told Mr Nicholls and Madam, but he was not put out about it one whit, and Madam was so ill herself that she seemed not to take it in properly. The only one who showed anything for her was Mr Brontë, and he was very tearful about her with me, and we both cried when she was laid to rest in the Churchyard, by the garden wall of the Parsonage, on that cold February day. We were the only ones who did though. Mr Nicholls just looked stern, and Madam said she was too ill to come, and I was not at all surprised by that because by then she was in a really bad way.

  To tell the truth, she was very much as Miss Aykroyd and me had been, but far worse than me. She was taking hardly anything, and that only from Mr Nicholls, and she just brought it all up again and got weaker and weaker. Mind you, I did have some help with her from Mr Nicholls, who seemed very put out by her state. He helped me change her bedding, and it was him who cleaned and fed her, and that was a good thing because I could not have done it. It had been bad enough with poor Miss Aykroyd – but at least I had felt something for her.

  Having said that, I could not but help feel sorry for Madam. She told me that she was not sleeping at nights, and little wonder at that for I knew that she had read Miss Anne’s book again, and by then she must have had her thoughts about what was happening to her.

  All in all then, there was a very strange, quiet air about the Parsonage in those days and, as we could not open the windows for long as it was so cold, there was always a terrible smell of sickness, damp, rot and other things about it. I hated it all, especially as the smell tended to linger on me, and I had to have a strip wash every night to try to get rid of it.

  I had had a feeling of trouble in store when they came back from Ireland, and there had been a little already, but now it was so strong that I just knew that we were all caught up in something awful and felt the doom that hung over us. I did not know it then, but things were moving to a close.

  [] We have seen that Nicholls had been examining Charlotte’s mail, both incoming and outgoing, for some time, and we know that sometimes he censored her letters. Nevertheless, Charlotte was managing to smuggle a few out, with Martha as the principal intermediary. It was an arrangement which Nicholls had anticipated long before Martha told him of it, and he had realized that it was unlikely that he would be able to end the practice. He therefore decided to minimize the dangers of those which he feared most, and they were the ones to Ellen Nussey.

  Charlotte was told that she should instruct her friend to burn all letters which she received from her, and Nicholls stood over her whilst she wrote. Once again she was placed in an impossible situation with Ellen, and this time she was not able even to attempt an excuse.

  Her letter is dated 20 October and, obviously referring to a previous communication of which Nicholls did have knowledge, she wrote: ‘I’m sure I don’t think I have said anything rash – however you must burn it when read. Arthur says such letters as mine never ought to be kept – they are dangerous as lucifer matches – so be sure to follow a recommendation he has just given – “fire them” or “there will be no more”, such is his resolve. I can’t help laughing – this seems to me so funny. Arthur, however, says he is quite “serious” and looks it, I assure you – he is bending over the desk with his eyes full of concern. I am now desired “to have done with it . . .”’

  One cannot help but feel pity for Charlotte. She did her best to keep it light with her ‘I can’t help laughing’ and ‘this seems to me so funny’, but she did not succeed. She wrote, also, of Nicholls having eyes ‘full of concern’, but although they were probably full of something it certainly was not concern. In any event, she contradicted herself immediately because it just is not possible for a husband who is snapping at his wife to ‘have done with it’ to have his eyes ‘full of concern’ at the same time.

  That incident alone should serve to convince us that all was not well between Charlotte and Nicholls, and it goes a long way to corroborate what Martha wrote.

  Of course, Charlotte’s letter served merely to confirm everything that Ellen had ever thought or suspected about Nicholls, and I imagine that her comments about him on receiving it were hardly ladylike.

  Predictably, she declined to give the required undertaking, and her refusal brought forth more threats. Charlotte wrote again: ‘Dear Ellen, Arthur complains that you do not distinctly promise to burn my letters as you receive them. He says you must give him a plain pledge to that effect – or he will read every line I write and elect himself censor of our correspondence.’ She went on to tell her friend that she should: ‘Write him out his promise on a separate piece of paper, in a legible hand – and send it in your next.’

  What is one to make of that? I find it almost unbelievable.

  Ellen’s reply was sarcastic, and shows quite clearly that she knew that Nicholls was virtually dictating Charlotte’s correspondence. She addressed it: ‘To the Revd. The Magister’, and it reads: ‘My Dear Mr Nicholls, As you seem to hold in great horror the ardentia verba of feminine epistles, I pledge myself to the destruction of Charlotte’s epistles, henceforth, if you pledge yourself to no censorship in the matter communicated.’

  That letter now bears a note stating that: ‘Mr N. continued his censorship so the pledge was void.’ It also carries another comment which we shall discuss a little later.

  There is further confirmation of Martha’s allegation that Nicholls told Charlotte to whom she was allowed to write. In January 1855, Mrs Gaskell complained to Catherine Wink-worth, who was a mutual friend, that Charlotte – usually so meticulous about her correspondence – had not answered her last letter. Mrs Gaskell had not heard from her since the previous September – and she was never to again! Nicholls had no intention of allowing his wife to communicate with such a notorious gossip.

  Early in 1855, Nicholls found himself in something of a predicament. The persistent Sir James Kaye-Shuttleworth had been going on and on about him and Charlotte going to stay with him and his wife but, as we know, Nicholls did not wish to go anywhere at that time. In this particular case, however, he realized that constant refusals might jeopardize his plans for his own future.

  He knew that he was going to do away with Charlotte, but he could not foresee what would happen after that. He thought that it was more than likely that, with his daughter dead, Mr Brontë would boot him out, and then it would not be at all a bad thing to have a friend in high places – especially one who could offer him a living. In the event, Sir James did indeed offer him the living at Padiham. He declined it, but in the nicest possible way because, even as he spoke, he must have hoped that the offer would remain open for just a little longer!

  Martha had her suspicions that Nicholls began to poison Charlotte just after Christmas but, were that so, it is hard to understand why he had delayed for so long. The probability is that he decided to wait until the depths of winter because then the likelihood of her death being attributed to natural causes would be so much greater. However, an alternative explanation may be that he postponed the final reckoning until after he had conducted a few dosage trials with whatever poison he intended to use. It is rather curious to note that Anne’s dog, Flossy, died in early December. Now the dog was old, and could have gone at any time but, especially as that was so, it would have made an ideal guinea-pig.

  On 19 January 1855, Charlotte managed to get a letter out to Ellen and told her that: ‘My health has really been very good ever since my return from Ireland till about ten days ago, when the stomach seemed quite suddenly to lose its tone – indigestion and continual faint sickness have been my portion ever since.’ Now such symptoms in a woman, and especially one recently married, would, in those times, have tended to indicate pregnancy. That had obviously occurred to Charlotte who continued: ‘Don’t conjecture – dear Nell – for it is too soon yet though I certainly never before felt as I have done lately. But keep the matter wholly to yourself – for I can come to no decided opinion at present.’ She went on to say that she was ‘rather mortified
to lose my good looks [sic!] and grown thin as I am doing.’ Now I am a mere male, without a comprehensive knowledge of such matters, but I must admit that growing thin is not something which I associate with pregnancy!

  Was Charlotte pregnant? Most writers seem to be firmly of the opinion that she was, but I wonder. We have only the word of Mrs Gaskell for what may be merely a canard, and we have seen already that she was not the most reliable of biographers. We cannot know whether she was surmising as a result of what Ellen Nussey told her, or simply repeating something put about later by Nicholls.

  Whatever her condition, from that moment on Charlotte had no direct contact with Ellen. Nicholls took over the writing of her correspondence completely, and it must have given him great pleasure to tell Ellen, on 23 January, that he was answering her letter, ‘as Charlotte is not well’. He wrote that his wife had said that ‘it will not be possible for her to visit you earlier than the 31st’, adding the rider that he did not think that it would be advisable for her to do so even then ‘unless she improves very rapidly’.

  Six days later he wrote to Ellen again. Charlotte was still unwell, she was bedridden, and he had sent for a doctor from Bradford, ‘as I wish to have better advice than Haworth affords’. The physician in question was a Dr MacTurk, who was said to be very competent, but summoning him was simply a part of Nicholls’ strategy, and a ruse employed by other poisoners over the years.

  The plan, which is put into operation in the early stages of the poisoning, is to consult a respected doctor who does not know the patient, and preferably one who practises outside the area. Then, in a manner similar to that employed by Charlotte with regard to Anne, a false idea of the nature of the illness is planted in his mind by the poisoner, and his agreement obtained that this is probably the cause of the indisposition. Thus a medical history of the supposed ailment is established and may be quoted to a local doctor.

  Mrs Gaskell’s account informs us that, after Charlotte had been ill for some time, Nicholls sent for a doctor who ‘assigned a natural cause for her miserable disposition – a little patience and all would go right.’ Against that, however, we must set Nicholls’ letter to Ellen, of 1 February: ‘Dr MacTurk saw Charlotte on Tuesday. His opinion was that her illness would be of some duration, but that there was no immediate danger. I trust therefore that in a few weeks she will be well again.’ It was a peculiar letter by any standard. Having implied that the doctor expected Charlotte to be indisposed for a fairly long time, Nicholls thought that she would be recovered in just a few weeks. Admittedly, it could be argued that ‘some duration’ is a relative term, but medical men of my acquaintance tell me that they would use it only when months rather than weeks were involved.

  There is no mention in Nicholls’ letter to Ellen of ‘a natural cause’ – very much the opposite in fact – but that is not to be wondered at, because even if Charlotte had been pregnant, and that seems unlikely, Ellen Nussey was the last person whom he would have told.

  To realize the importance of that letter in the order of things, one must ask why Nicholls was bothering to write to Ellen at all, because normally he would not have wasted a stamp on her. The answer is that it was just another tactic in his strategy, and one that has been used by murderers through the ages. Relatives, friends or acquaintances who might become concerned at not hearing from the victim have to be appeased before they become inquisitive. Ellen was just such a person, and Nicholls followed the classic pattern.

  The friend has to be placed on notice that the victim is ill, but at the same time she must be reassured that it is nothing serious. In that way, there is no rush to the bedside, but on the other hand the friend is not totally unprepared when informed that there were complications and the patient is dead.

  Here, therefore, we have Nicholls warning Ellen that it might be a long illness, but that there was no immediate danger and, despite what the doctor has said, he expected her to be up and about in a few weeks.

  Had Ellen discovered that Charlotte was seriously ill, or even that she was definitely pregnant, there can be no doubt but that she would have hastened to the Parsonage. So in his next letter to her was Nicholls lying to keep her away or telling the truth? On 14 February he wrote: ‘It is difficult to write to friends about my wife’s illness, as its cause is not yet certain.’ He wrote that although, according to Mrs Gaskell, the doctor had ‘assigned a natural cause’ over a fortnight before, and despite the fact that, at around the same time, Nicholls had appeared reasonably confident that Charlotte would soon be well!

  As with so many of the mysteries surrounding the Brontë family, various people had motives for lying and therefore it is nigh impossible to establish the truth with certainty. What is puzzling, however, is why so many writers airily perpetuate ‘facts’ which, as only a little research would have shown, are nothing of the sort. It is this casual approach that has allowed the many Brontë canards to go unchallenged for so long.

  Where the truth of a matter is in doubt, and not able to be established by any other means, we must fall back upon circumstantial evidence.

  Charlotte had been quite happy to intimate to Ellen the possibility of a pregnancy, so surely she would not have hesitated, nay would she not have been overjoyed, to have told her friend had it been confirmed? However, nothing of the sort ever happened.

  When, eventually, she managed to get a faintly pencilled message out to Ellen all that she wrote about herself was: ‘I am not going to talk about my sufferings, it would be useless and painful.’ That pathetic note does not read as if it is from a woman who is expecting her first child by ‘dear, patient, constant Arthur’ does it? It is more like a cry for help from a Charlotte who knows her fate and is resigned to it.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Are not my days few? cease then, and let me alone, that I may take comfort a little.’

  Job 10:20

  Thinking back, nothing was ever the same after Miss Aykroyd passed away, although I did not notice it so much at the time because I was so out of sorts with myself. The feeling that trouble was on the way had stayed with me, and things were not helped by that February being so bleak.

  It got so that I hated being in the Parsonage more and more, and it was terrible getting out of bed on those cold mornings, with frost even up the inside of the windows. I was only really content at night, when I had had my wash and was snug and warm in bed with my thoughts.

  My parents must have had words about me because once Mother asked me if I was all right, and if I needed a doctor – and I knew that she would not have said such a thing unless she had talked about it with Father first. I told her I was just down, what with one thing and another in the Parsonage and the weather and all, and knowing how I always felt about Winter she let me be after that.

  What I could not understand, though, were the changes that had taken place in Mr Nicholls. All of a sudden he seemed very happy with life, and though he seemed to have barely any time for me he spent hours and hours with Madam, waiting upon her every wish. He did everything for her, and I used to hear him talking to her for such long times that I wondered what he could find to go on about all the while. Sometimes, when I made an excuse to go into their room, I would hear him comforting her, and saying that she would soon be better and suchlike, but I could tell that he had changed from what he had really been saying when he heard my knock.

  Whenever we had the Parsonage more or less to ourselves, which was a lot of the time by then, I tried to get him to pay some attention to me, but no matter what I said or did he always had some excuse for why we could not meet properly, and he never so much as pecked my cheek. It got to such a state that I began to worry that I had done something wrong in his eyes, but then, around the middle of the month, all became clear to me.

  I remember well that it was a Saturday, because I had taken to leaving the Parsonage earlier than usual on Saturdays, and on that particular one I was going out with my sisters. All morning I had worked hard so that I could get away on ti
me, and so I was not at all pleased when, after weeks of paying little heed to me, Mr Nicholls asked me to wait a while as he wanted a word with me. Any other time I would have been filled with joy, but then I was just cross. I thought of all the times when I had tried to have a proper meeting with him but it had not suited him and he had put me off, but now, when he wanted to, he expected me to be at his beck and call.

  As it happened, I did not have to wait for very long, but at one point I thought I would be there for ever. I heard him come leaping down the stairs, and he went straight into Mr Brontë’s room and shut the door. Whenever that had happened before the big upset between them it had usually meant that they would be in there together for ages, and so my heart sank as I thought of my sisters waiting for me. I need not have worried, though, for he was out of the room almost as soon as he had gone in, and I saw him coming towards me with a great smile on his face and waving a bit of paper in the air.

  He pulled me into the sitting room, sat me down at Madam’s writing desk, and put a pen in my hand. Then he laid what I found to be more than one bit of paper before me and told me to sign my name where his finger was pointing.

  I did not do so though. Father had always dinned it into us all that we should never sign anything without reading it inside, outside and upside down first, and understanding what we were putting our names to, and I was not going to change the habit of a lifetime, even for Mr Nicholls.

  The pen was still in my hand, but I made no move and that seemed to anger him a little. Once again, but in quite a sharp voice this time, he ordered me to sign where his finger was, but his manner was not to my liking and so I put the pen down with a bang and looked up at him. He had some colour in his cheeks, and his eyes held a look of wildness such as I had never seen in them before, and that made me wonder all the more about what I was expected to put my name to.