I pray best with my eyes open. I always have. I am not distracted by the world around me; I draw inspiration from it. If anyone asks me, that is what I will tell them. And yet, this girl, in the congregation, had her head up and her eyes focused upon me. She did not smile. I did not smile. But for what felt like a full minute, though it may only have been a few seconds, while Daniel Biggs asked for Christ’s blessed Mercy to rain upon the people of Bromley, Harriet Monckton and I were staring at each other.
I thought no more of it until the Thursday night prayer meeting. I sat with the others on hard chairs in the Sunday schoolroom at the back, in a rough semi-circle, as by turns we brought our troubles to the Lord and prayed for each other, for the chapel, for our pastor, for the poor, for the missionaries bringing the Word of the Lord to the dark places of the world, for Her Majesty the Queen, for the people of our town and for our families. And Harriet was there. I kept my head down until I could bear it no longer, and I looked up, and her gaze was fixed upon me. I frowned. James Hopperton was praying, one of those that went on and on and repeated itself at least three times before it reached its conclusion. All other heads were bowed, eyes closed. Just myself and Harriet, staring at each other. At any moment someone could look up, and interpret our wordless communication as a sin, or as, at least, something indelicate.
I bowed my head once again and broke the spell.
That so much could come from such a moment – even now it takes me by surprise. That look between us, a connection, born silently, in the sight of God and in the presence of the Holy Spirit – surely such a thing is Holy itself?
After that, I spent all my time thinking of interesting things I could say to her, but on the few occasions I found myself in her presence the words would not come. One fierce February afternoon when there looked to be a storm brewing I offered to accompany her home. I helped her over the stile and she took my hand and my heart buzzed like a bee in a bud with it, the feel of her. If she noticed, she never said, for she was kind-hearted. I asked to walk her home whenever the opportunity presented itself, just so that I could have those joyous moments in her presence; sometimes she accepted, sometimes she had other things to do, or said she was happy to walk by herself. I liked to think that we had an understanding, wordless, perhaps, but an understanding nevertheless.
I must have been mistaken, though, about that; for one day I heard that she was gone to London, and she never even told me she was going. A few times she came back for visits, and went away again, and when she left my heart was sore without her. For all that Emma Milstead stepped in to keep me occupied, I never stopped thinking of Harriet Monckton, all of the long months she was gone. When she came back to stay, there was a moment when I thought that this time would be the death of me. Or her. How I felt about her, it was too much. Too fierce. And then she smiled at me again and the sun came out and the worry of it was all forgotten, until the end.
But it did not matter, now. I had been right, with that morbid feeling I had. Harriet was dead. All of the good things were past, and done with. None of it was important. Not any more.
Frances Williams
Harriet wrote in her journal most evenings, when she stayed with me.
It was a small book, bound in green leather, with creamy-white paper within it. She said it had been a present from a dear friend, so that she could record her thoughts, and she carried it everywhere with her, lest her sister should find it, and read it, for she said that she sometimes wrote unkind thoughts in it to get them out of her head.
I asked her if she ever wrote unkind thoughts about me. Half-joking, of course, for by then we were firm friends.
She laughed and said she never wrote a bad word about me, and, on the contrary, that she had written at length about our friendship and how much she cherished it.
‘Let me see,’ I said.
And she clutched the journal to her chest and shook her head, still laughing, and said that I should think her very free with her words, and she was embarrassed by them.
She relented, though, eventually, when we had grown closer still. Those nights when we lay still, listening to the rain outside, my arm about her waist. How warm and soft she felt, the shape of her, beautiful, under my hands. I became very good at pretending to be asleep. I learned to deepen my breathing, to sigh, to mumble as if in a dream, and as Harriet lay there, still awake, my arm would move, seemingly involuntarily. Sometimes she would move my arm gently away, and then I would turn in bed and leave her in peace. But not always. Sometimes she moved my arm closer, or stroked it; once, she kissed my hand, which was near her face.
There was one night when I woke up to find the lamp burning low at the table, Harriet sitting up in her chemise, with her journal.
‘What time is it?’
‘Past three,’ she said. ‘I could not sleep.’
I got out of bed and found my shawl, and placed it about her shoulders, so that she should not catch a chill.
‘What are you writing about?’ I asked.
‘Just the events of the day.’
I watched her writing: tiny little letters she had, filling each page. It had not been an especially eventful day, as I recall; but she continued, bending closely over her words, writing page after page.
‘Oh, Frances,’ she said, at last. ‘Do you want to hear some of my thoughts? I think you shall like them.’
I told her I did.
She turned back through the book, looking for the right place, and then she found it, and read aloud. ‘Frances is the most excellent teacher I think I should ever know. She loves her girls, by which I mean she does not indulge them, but she disciplines them so well and praises them so fulsomely when they work hard, or try their best, that they want to improve and so work even harder for her. She knows them all as individuals, and loves them dearly, although she cannot tell them so except by giving them what they most need: the gift of an education. She defends them against Mr Campling’s more vigorous complaints, and if any one should speak ill of any of them she becomes a veritable warrior in their defence. I declare that is exactly what she is: Frances Williams, Warrior for her Girls.’
I smiled at this, and perhaps I blushed a little.
‘See how very highly I regard you? And this part, too: If I should ever be a teacher half as fine as Miss Williams is, I should think it some achievement. I shall never be as good!’
‘You flatter me, Harriet,’ I told her. ‘Of course you are an accomplished teacher already.’
Later, when I knew more of her past and of her secrets, she shared with me other pages too: although always letting me read a particular passage and then taking back the book, lest I read on to something that was too personal for me to see. I liked that she trusted me with her words, but I worried about the journal falling into the wrong hands. I thought, perhaps, that the pages she would not let me read contained secrets about me. She knew how I felt about her, that my love for her was not the same as her love for me. What if she had written about it? What if someone else read those words? My reputation would be destroyed, my position as a teacher would be impossible, and with that my life would be at an end.
I told her that I was afraid her journal would be mislaid, or stolen, or fall into unkind hands. She said she always kept it with her, and she would never lose it.
And now Harriet is dead, and the journal is lost. And every day I wait for the consequences of that to unfold.
Reverend George Verrall
On my return home, Sarah was in the drawing room with Ruth, who was at her sewing. She got to her feet and said she would fetch me some supper, for which I thanked her.
‘Well,’ I said to my wife, taking the seat next to the fire, ‘the inquest is begun. And the coroner – fool that he is – insists on calling for a post-mortem.’
‘A post-mortem! What does he expect to find?’
‘The manner of her death, one assumes.’
‘You told him she had destroyed herself, I presume? What further investigation
is needed?’
‘I suppose he has to be thorough.’
Ruth came back into the room with a tray: a pot of tea, cold meat, bread and cheese on a plate with a round, red apple. She took up her sewing once more. I expected her to ask about Harriet, but she did not. My sister, the only person in Bromley able to mind her own business.
‘I visited the Churchers today,’ Sarah said.
I looked up from the plate. ‘Did you now?’
‘The poor boy is in a bad way. He is refusing to see Emma Milstead. I told him he should make his peace with her.’
‘Why must you meddle so? Leave the boy be.’
‘You know he needs guidance, George. He cannot be left to blunder through life like that. He is, as you rightly say, a sensitive boy.’
The fire crackled in the grate. I swallowed down my anger, a hard lump of indignation, doing my best to ignore Sarah’s increasing habit of challenging me in front of my own sister. She knows I will not rise to it, not unless we are alone. It has become like a sport to her. The bread was stale, the cheese hard at the edges. No amount of chewing would soften it further than a sticky lump. I washed it down with tea but I could still feel it, a ball of putty in my chest.
her eyelashes wet with tears
her begging on her knees before me
‘I shall write to the coroner,’ I said.
‘To what end?’ Sarah asked, but I was already on my feet.
‘To insist that a post-mortem is entirely unnecessary,’ I said. ‘The man’s a fool if he can’t see it. The jury will do as he says, all he has to do is suggest it.’
‘You’re too late for the post,’ Ruth said. But I went to my study nonetheless, as much to escape the pair of them.
you could save me and you choose not to, she said
I shall pray for your soul
Thursday, 9th November, 1843
Reverend George Verrall
‘Where are you going?’
‘Go back to sleep.’
‘What hour is it?’
‘Past four. I need to pray. Go back to sleep.’
I lit a candle on the landing to light me to the kitchen; Mrs Burton was not yet awake. I sat beside the range, which was quite cold, the candle upon the worn oak table that had been in this same kitchen for years, years before we moved in and would remain in it no doubt for years to come.
if I am spared
My bare knees objected to the cold flagstones but I paid no heed; I prayed for forgiveness, called out to the Lord for mercy. I repented for my treatment of her, for turning her away when she asked for my help. I asked the Lord whether the path I had chosen was indeed a righteous one, or if I had slipped from it through pride, or thoughtlessness. I prayed for calm, for a steady head, that I should minister to my flock with all of my heart and soul, that I should not let anyone else fall away from the path of righteousness.
By that point my knees had grown numb and getting to my feet again was intensely painful; no less than I deserved.
Harriet on her knees before me in the chapel
her eyes raised to mine
I could not deny it. I had lusted after her; whatever I called it – Holy Fire, a Gift of Grace from the Lord – it was still lust.
filthy with it
filthy with sin
I took my candle to the study. The fire had been swept and freshly laid, so it was a matter of a moment to light it using a taper from the mantelpiece. The warmth spread from it quickly as the fire rose and crackled, and I drew comfort from it. I felt, perhaps, a little forgiven. I felt blessed.
I could not put it off any longer: I had to write to Richard Field.
At my desk I lit the lamp and drew forth notepaper and a pen.
Bromley, 9th November 1843
My dear Sir,—
and how should I write to this man
this man who apparently loved her once?
We are suddenly plunged into the depths of trouble. Our dear young friend, Harriet Monckton, who was expecting to visit you yesterday, to arrange about going to Arundel, was found on Tuesday afternoon, about half past 5, within the privy of Bromley chapel, quite dead—
quite dead
how odd that sounds
you are either dead or not dead, how can you be quite dead?
—and had apparently been so some hours. The jury sat last night, and have adjourned until tomorrow (Friday) evening, at seven o’clock, to allow a post-mortem examination to be made, to ascertain whether any thing has been taken to hasten death. We are of opinion that she has died in a fit—
a fit you call it now, George?
a fit of excitement
what else can I say?
—produced by excitement at the sudden change from depression of spirits at being so long out of a situation, and the contrary, in expectation of so soon getting into one. The examination today will throw some light upon the business. The enemies of the Cross are alert in this place of abounding infidelity and High Churchism. Pray for us, that, in the event of her having taken any thing improper, the blow may not fall on our dear Zion’s cause. My poor people, not to say the poor afflicted mother and sister, are greatly excited. Harriet was a favourite with everybody for her exemplary conduct—
I stopped writing for some time and stared at the page, at my letters so neatly formed, the ink drying as I watched. How best to phrase the last part? This letter might well be made public. Everything I said and did had to be thoughtfully considered now, lest someone should be called under oath to report upon it. Even – or perhaps especially – Richard Field. For now, the man was in blissful ignorance as to the fate of his dear Harriet. His dear young friend. There he was in London, no doubt sleeping deeply in his warm bed, next to the virtuous Maria. He had no knowledge of what was to come. And here was I, writing a letter which would throw him into a state of considerable distress.
—I have strong evidence to present myself of great mental excitement under which she has been labouring for some time—
yes, George, that’s good, that’s right
—and which was calculated to produce a fit of some kind, or temporary insanity, but which, of course, will not be presented to the jury unless it is necessary—
necessary being the moment when you stand up and tell them about me, Richard
—I do not know whether you could add any thing to that evidence or not.
and if you do so, let it be favourable
for your sake and for mine
—I will send you word what verdict the jury may decide upon.
I am, yours truly,
George Verrall
P.S.— You will, of course, inform the Arundel folks.
I sat back in my chair. The fire, untended, had burned itself low. I should have fuelled it further but my mind had been consumed with the task in hand, which, now completed, had quite exhausted me. I took up the letter and read it closely, considering whether he would fully understand my meaning. How difficult it was, to express so much earnest desire and hope, whilst writing about a subject so terrible and so tragic!
But he was an intelligent man. He would understand.
It was a letter of warning. A letter of instruction.
I heard the creaking of the stairs followed by the sounds of someone – Jessie, or Mrs Burton – in the kitchen. Here I sat, attired only in my nightshirt. I addressed the envelope and sealed the letter inside it before I could doubt myself still further, and took the candle back upstairs to the bedroom.
Sarah was still and quiet. She was not asleep.
Frances Williams
The weather remains warm and dry, but overcast. Fifty-nine girls in attendance. Four girls absent with scarlatina, not including the Jessops children, who remain at home. I fear there may be another outbreak, like the one we suffered in February. Selina Lucas fell in the yard and tore her dress, and was sent home to mend it. The Reverend Mr Newell visited the girls’ room to hear them sing. They performed passably. In the afternoon I tested the older gi
rls on their letters; further work is needed. At the end of school I heard some of the older children playing ‘murder’ in the yard. I went to speak to them but, by the time I got out, they had gone.
By now, Harriet should have gone on from London to Arundel. Someone would have written to them, of course; if not Mrs Monckton or Mary Ann then Mr Verrall would have seen to it. They would have to find another schoolteacher.
For a moment a thought crossed my mind: that I should write to the board at Arundel and offer them my services in Harriet’s place. I could not stay here. It wasn’t the school; I had taught in far worse establishments. But here, in Bromley – with memories everywhere, and with the rest of them, the hypocrites and the gossips, the women with their false manners and the men with their filthy minds – I should die here, die of misery and heartbreak, were I to stay.
That evening I ate a chop with some Beezley bread (‘beastly bread’, Harriet called it, with a laugh) that tasted of chalk and mould. At seven, when I was preparing for bed, there was a knock at the door.
‘It’s Clara,’ came the response when I asked who it was.
Clara was possibly the only visitor I could have tolerated that evening; the one remaining decent woman in the town. I opened the door to her and she came in, wide-eyed, carrying a bottle. ‘Well, my dear,’ she said, taking off her bonnet. ‘What a dreadful, dreadful thing to happen. How are you?’
I was so tired, I could not manage to arrange my face appropriately, and she could see for herself how I was. She gathered me into her arms and held me close against her. I tried to relax but was unable to, and after a moment of standing there stiffly she released me.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 5
