She made me feel like a man.
Reverend George Verrall
I returned to the Monckton house on Wednesday morning, at nine o’clock sharp. I brought with me my Bible and a basket containing some fresh bread, baked in my kitchen, and cheese, both of them wrapped in muslin cloth by my wife.
Mary Ann Monckton opened the door to me. Someone had made an attempt to dress the house in mourning, but it felt half-hearted.
‘I have come to offer my sincerest condolences,’ I said, ‘and to bring you some prayer, and some sustenance.’
‘You came yesterday,’ she said, but after some sound from the room behind her she opened the door and granted me access.
The room was full. Mrs Monckton sat in the same chair she had occupied last night, when I came to deliver the sad tidings. Standing at the mantel were two young men, one of whom looked sufficiently like Harriet’s deceased father to be her brother; the other I did not recognise.
On a low bench beside the fire, Mary Ann’s elder sister, Sarah, sat knitting. Her eyes were red as she looked up at me.
‘Do forgive the intrusion,’ I said. I offered the basket of food to Mary Ann, who took it.
I shook hands with the two men; as I suspected, one was the eldest son, Stephen. The other was George Dorset, Sarah’s husband. They had only been married a year, and were living a short distance away, in Plaistow.
Harriet’s body was still lying on the bed where it had been placed last night. A sheet covered it. I wondered if she had been undressed, and washed. If her teeth were still clenched over her tongue. If her eyes were closed.
if she has been washed clean
if she has my scent upon her skin
‘I wondered if arrangements had yet been made for the funeral,’ I asked Mrs Monckton.
‘None,’ said Stephen. ‘We can spare no money for it.’
Sarah glared at him. It felt as though I had intruded into a conversation.
‘It may be, sir,’ I offered, ‘with your sister having been a regular attendant of my chapel, that some of our funds could be made available to you to facilitate, perhaps, a simple coffin. I can make enquiries, if you should wish me to.’
‘We are not members of your church,’ Sarah said haughtily.
‘Yes,’ Stephen replied, at the same moment. ‘Paying for the coffin would be appreciated most warmly, sir.’
a thank-you from your mother would not go amiss either
I was about to offer to lead them in a prayer when there came a knock at the door.
Mary Ann went to open it. ‘Never had so many callers,’ she muttered.
Two men came in, removing their hats as they did so. One of them was older, grey-haired, with a jowly, sagged face like a wax cast that had been placed too close to a stove, the other taller, sallow, clean-shaven. He introduced the elder man as the coroner for Kent, Mr Charles Carttar. All in the room stood, even the ladies. Carttar bade them sit.
‘My dear lady,’ he said, addressing Harriet’s mother. ‘My deepest condolences upon the sad loss of your daughter.’
‘Thank you,’ she responded. I believe it was the first time I had heard her speak. Her voice was high, and querulous.
‘I do require a formal identification to be made. Perhaps now, if you would be so kind.’
The woman looked alarmed at the thought of it. I wondered if the sheet had even been removed from Harriet’s face. If she had looked upon her dead daughter.
‘I’ll do it,’ Stephen said.
The coroner nodded. The two men crossed to the bed. I accompanied them, for the sake of comfort, and so I saw what they saw.
it does not look like her
it is not her
The eyes had been closed but not fully; beneath the lashes a sliver of the eye still visible, dull and waxy.
they need to place pennies on those eyes to close them
The skin of the face was white and mottled with blue, cheeks slack, but the mouth still closed. A half-inch of the tongue still between the teeth. Black with blood, a line of it trickling down one side to the chin and down the neck. On the side of the throat, the ghost of a bruise. A fly landed on the face, walked across to the corner of her eye. Stephen Monckton waved it away.
her eyes her cheeks her face her neck
don’t do that again, she said
it leaves a mark
someone will notice
but I ignored her and did it again
‘This is my sister, Harriet Monckton,’ Stephen said.
‘And when did you last see her alive, sir?’
‘Saturday last.’
‘And she was well?’
‘Well, and in good spirits.’
The coroner looked around to his assistant, who was taking notes, and caught sight of me.
‘You knew the deceased, Reverend?’
‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘She was a member of my congregation. A most virtuous girl.’
Carttar nodded, looking down once more at the body. ‘I shall arrange for her to be removed, so that the surgeon can perform a post-mortem. Perhaps later today.’
‘A post-mortem?’ Stephen asked.
‘She shall be returned to you in due course, for the burial.’
‘Is a post-mortem entirely necessary?’ I asked.
‘Yes, indeed,’ the coroner said. ‘The cause of death must be determined.’
The room was silent. All of them were looking at me, looking to me to support them, in their hour of most desperate need. I was the one who must speak up. It fell to me to represent them, to speak up for Harriet.
‘But the family,’ I said. ‘I speak for the family. Their poor dear daughter lies here in peace, awaiting her transformation into glory. Surely there is no need to disturb her rest?’
‘I’m afraid there is no other course of action to be taken, sir.’ He glanced behind me. ‘My dear lady,’ the coroner continued, addressing Mrs Monckton, ‘I’m afraid we shall have to trouble you further today. Once the jury has been sworn in, they are required to view the body. That may well be as soon as this afternoon. If you would prefer it, we can remove her remains to the workhouse and the viewing can take place there.’
‘She should remain here,’ Stephen said. ‘Let them come.’
‘As you wish, sir.’
The coroner nodded to his assistant, and they took up their hats once more. I offered my hand to Stephen Monckton, acknowledged the ladies and wished them well, and followed them out.
‘Sirs,’ I said, to attract their attention. A closed carriage was waiting for them outside. ‘A moment, if you please.’
‘Reverend?’
‘Verrall is the name, sir. I am pastor of the chapel, in Widmore Lane. Miss Monckton was a regular attender.’
‘Yes, as you said.’
‘Forgive me, sir; I had wished to mention this to you, but not in the presence of her poor family, who have suffered so, by her sad loss.’
‘What is it, man?’ The coroner had one foot on the step, ready to leave. He took it down. The assistant took out his pencil.
‘That I saw the girl on Sunday last, sir. That she was in a state of some excitement, and vexation. That she was – in fact – troubled, sir. When I heard she was missing, I went immediately to the police station – immediately, I say – and suggested that they should look for her in the Bishop’s Pond. I thought she must have taken her own life.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Yes, sir. And so, you see, there is really no need for the delay of a post-mortem, after all.’
The man raised one eyebrow, and did not speak.
‘I feel quite certain that no other has had a hand in her unfortunate demise, sir. Quite certain. And on that you have my oath, as a Christian and a gentleman.’
Moments passed, and he continued to regard me, as if contemplating my words with the greatest care.
‘Mr Verrall,’ he said at last, ‘I am grateful for your candour. And yet I am afraid the matter is quite resolved. A post-mortem must
and shall take place. And your thoughts will be put to the inquest, and your opinions and knowledge of the deceased and her state of mind will be given due consideration.’
He turned and climbed the step, pulling the door closed behind him. ‘Good day, sir.’ A knock upon the roof of the carriage, and the coachman nudged the horse with his whip, and they were gone.
why does nobody listen to me?
Frances Williams
Sixty-four girls in attendance this morning. Eliza Sanger was sent home to fetch her school pence, which were a full week in arrears. She did not return. Mrs Campling stayed in the girls’ room for an hour, to supervise the older girls’ needlework, which is to be sold next week. Ann Voakes and Priscilla Draper were sent to the corner for gossiping. Mr Campling beat two boys for poor work. Alice Jessops is absent with scarlatina. Mr Campling wishes all the Jessops children to cease attending until the sickness is passed from their household, so I was obliged to send the three girls home with their brothers.
In the morning, Mr Campling spoke to me about my illness and my failure to attend the class yesterday. My voice was hoarse and I was still feverish, but he appeared to overlook this.
‘Mrs Campling,’ he said, ‘has been greatly inconvenienced by your lack of commitment to the school.’
‘I did suggest that the pupil teachers would manage well enough,’ I said.
He does not like it when I stand up to him. He had begun his lecture from his usual position, a few feet away, and was so incensed by my response that he took a stride forward, the better to fix me with his stare, apparently forgetting in his fury that I am some six inches taller than he, and he was thus forced into a disadvantageous position.
‘If you should fail to attend in future, Miss Williams, you should look for a position elsewhere.’
I thought of answering, but what was the point? He needed to assert his authority, and it was quicker and easier to just let him do it, so I could get on with the business of the day.
‘And you should not expect a favourable character.’
With that, he turned his back on me, which I took as a dismissal. He was full of bluster and ill will; he ruled the boys’ room with violence because it was the only way he could maintain discipline. He was shorter than most of the older ones, and, if they were to see through him as I do, they would turn the cane on him and get their revenge.
Fortunately the girls were so pleased to see that I was to take them, and not Mrs Campling, that they behaved beautifully. It was just as well: I had not eaten, scarcely slept. The cough that had troubled me for weeks and had caused me to take to my bed, and have Harriet as my nurse, had worsened. Every breath was painful. My heart, broken into pieces inside my chest, and the pain spreading within me, seeping into my bones.
And Harriet’s diary was nowhere to be found.
Reverend George Verrall
The inquest is opened at the Bromley workhouse. I will say this: the man wasted no time. Scarcely twenty-four hours have passed since Harriet’s remains were discovered by Churcher and Sweeting, and yet already the coroner has found and sworn a jury, no doubt brought them to the Monckton house to view the body, and set up the first meeting.
I was in attendance, of course; my duty was to ensure Harriet’s welfare, even after her unfortunate demise.
This morning, over breakfast, Sarah had asked if she should also attend.
‘Under no circumstances,’ I told her.
‘But I shall be expected,’ she said. ‘If you are there, I should be by your side, to support you, and those others who are suffering because of this dreadful business.’
‘On the contrary. You must stay here. Minister to the town if you insist, but stay away from the inquest.’
She bit her tongue and said nothing else. She meant well, but I feared she might say something, unintentionally, which could be misconstrued.
Eventually the coroner entered. He appeared a serious, steady type. His assistant was most business-like about the whole affair, bustling into the meeting room at the workhouse and ordering everyone about. A long table had been set up at the front of the room, a single chair in front of it, two rows of chairs to the left, under the window, for the jury.
At the back of the room was another line of seats, to be occupied by the elderly ladies and gentlemen of the town, those not so noble as to find the whole matter distasteful, and yet sufficiently respectable as to qualify for a seat. I noticed a cohort of ladies from the Bromley College, their maids standing behind; I recognised Miss Holgate – that old toad – Mr Patello, Robert Latter, the attorney; Abraham Nettlefold, Mrs Carter of Bromley Lodge, Mr Lawes. Another whose name I always forget – the lady who walks with a glass-topped cane.
Behind them a rope strung across the room held back the crowd who had come to gawp. The working day was all but over, lending an additional throng of the curious, those who had nothing better to do with their evening than indulge their righteous indignation at such a horror, taking place as it did right under their inquisitive noses. The air fragrant with the press of unwashed bodies rubbing up against one another; I looked up longingly at the windows, but they were beyond my reach and should have required a pole to draw up the sash.
The coroner watched in silence as the jury took their seats. I felt sorry for the man, to have to breathe in this reeking air. Perhaps he was accustomed to it.
Fifteen men, good citizens of the town of Bromley. I knew them all to a man; five of them are members of my congregation. Among them three deacons: Thomas Parry, a leather-seller; James Sherver, watchmaker, and Robert Cooper, who leads the men’s prayer group. Also Daniel Biggs and Thomas Costin, both simple men, labourers, but trustworthy. I trusted them all.
To my mind, it was a favourable jury, for our purposes.
First came Harriet’s brother, Stephen, who had little to say beyond the identification of his sister, and that he had last seen her on Saturday, and that she had been in good spirits. After he was dismissed, Susannah Garn was called—
of all the people
—who testified to the deceased calling at her house at around twenty minutes past seven on Monday night. That Harriet had told her she was planning to go to London on the following day, and had come to bid her farewell. And that she was quite well and in good spirits.
Next to be summoned to appear was George Sweeting. He approached the seat in the manner of a man who was eager to appear humble, whilst simultaneously being bloated spherical with his own self-importance.
‘Your name, sir, and occupation?’ asked the coroner.
‘George Sweeting, of Bromley. I am a plumber and a glazier, property-owner and deacon of the chapel.’
pompous oaf he is
‘You heard the deceased was missing, and went in search of her, did you not?’
‘Indeed, sir, I heard that the deceased was missing and on Tuesday morning enquiries were made after her. During the day I did all I could to enquire after her.’
you did all you could
did you, man?
did you?
‘I understood the police had been made acquainted with her absence and in the afternoon about five o’clock I saw one of the policemen, who told me that he had searched, but could not find her, and had heard nothing of her. I then accompanied Tom Churcher in search of her. We came by the chapel gates and I said, “Are the gates open?”, and I tried them and went in and we went down the passage at the side of the chapel to the back part of it. The privy is at the extreme end in the corner of the yard at the rear of the chapel and out of sight as you pass down the passage. The back door of the chapel is close to the privy. I had to pass the back door to get to the privy door. I found the privy door open and I saw the body of a woman lying or sitting up partly on the floor.’
At this he paused, and glanced about the room. All present were listening to him intently, and for a dreadful moment I thought he was going to break into a smile at being the focus of such rapt attention.
‘What did you do
then?’ asked the coroner.
‘It was too dark to recognise her, and I was alarmed and drew back. I did not touch her or go into the privy. I ran out with Churcher into the street and called the police and we returned together. Mr Ilott the surgeon came directly afterwards.’
‘Thank you, Mr Sweeting.’
He stood there proudly, until the coroner was obliged to add, ‘That will be all at the present time.’
All eyes were upon him as Sweeting left his seat and came to stand next to me. The noise in the room swelled with conversation. His face was pink with the excitement of it all, and he looked up at me as if he wished me to say ‘well done’ or some other word of encouragement. To that end, after a moment, he nudged me in the ribs, and nodded to me.
‘A man’s pride shall bring him low, George,’ I said. ‘But honour shall uphold the humble in spirit. Think on that.’
And at that he flushed even darker.
Thomas Churcher
I shall have to answer to God for my sins. The reverend told me that. He preached a sermon about the last day, I cannot remember when, months ago, perhaps. I listened as I always listened and I remembered what he said: that on the last day we shall all be called to account.
I remember thinking, strangely, of my friend Joe Milstead and the time he stole a penny from John Cooper’s jacket. He had no reason to. It was just there, and he could. I told Joe that theft was a sin and that he should repent, and give the money back, but he laughed, and then I laughed because I could not stop myself.
But stealing a penny is one thing; eating too much at the chapel field day, pulling my sister’s hair, telling a lie about the tear in my breeches, all of them sin by degree. Keeping my eyes open during prayer.
That last one was not even a sin, but it feels as though it should be. It made me think of Harriet.
The first time I noticed her was in the chapel, a long time ago. Years; she cannot have been but sixteen. She had been attending a while, alone – her family being worshippers at the parish church instead – and I knew her name, for Bromley is not large and she went to my sister’s school – but I had paid her no mind. I was not interested. And then I looked across the congregation while Daniel Biggs led the prayers, and she had her eyes open, unfocused, but when she saw that mine were open too she looked straight back at me.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 4
