‘Did you hear the coroner has been called?’ Clara said.
I put the kettle on to the stove. ‘Yes. Mary Ann Monckton told me.’
‘The inquest began yesterday. After an hour the coroner adjourned it.’
‘Why?’
‘It was late, I think. They have much to discuss, or whatever it is they do in such circumstances.’
‘So they believe it was … murder?’
‘The surgeon thinks she was murdered, perhaps with poison. There is to be a post-mortem. Can you imagine?’
I knew this, too. Of course there would be a post-mortem. Harriet would be stripped and examined, her skin cut, the secrets of her lovely body given over to the gaze of men. The thought of it made me feel sick.
‘Perhaps it was yet accidental,’ I said, for want of something else to say. ‘How can they tell it was at someone else’s hand?’
From the look she gave me, I regretted my choice of words immediately.
‘Accidental?’ she echoed. ‘How could that be?’
Too tired, not thinking straight. I should keep quiet. Instead, I added, ‘Perhaps she thought she was taking something else: a draught, maybe, or a tonic. And in the darkness …?’
‘But in the privy, at the chapel? Why on earth?’
‘Better surely than to think that we have a murderer amongst us.’
I busied myself spooning tea into the pot, and setting out cups and saucers. They would all know, soon enough. If a surgeon was examining her, then he would soon discover more than just the cause of her death. To pre-empt these revelations in idle conversation was more than just foolish, it was dangerous.
‘You know Tom is in a bad way,’ said Clara.
‘Tom?’
‘He found her, with Sweeting.’
I bit down on my lip, tasted blood. That he had been the one to find her, of all people! Or had one of them known where to look?
‘Father says he has never seen Tom in such distress.’
‘He should be careful, showing his feelings; Emma shan’t like it.’
‘He broke it off, didn’t you know? A few weeks ago.’
I did know, of course. Harriet told me. But perhaps I had denied the reality of it. Emma Milstead had always had her heart set on Tom Churcher, everyone knew it, and he’d liked her well enough. If he hadn’t had his head turned by my Harriet, perhaps none of this would have happened.
The kettle rolled into a slow boil. My father’s clock, on the wall above the mantle, ticked a steady beat. I took the kettle off the stove and poured water into the pot. Clara gazed at the lamp.
‘We are all of us quite done in by it,’ I said briskly. ‘You too. You look quite ashen.’
She stood and retrieved the stoneware bottle that she had left by the door. ‘I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘I brought us some gin.’
We added a tot of gin to the tea and it revived me somewhat. Just three nights ago, Clara had taken tea with Harriet and me here, in this very room. My cough had been very bad, and Harriet was to stay the night with me to tend to me. On leaving, Clara had said she would return with some gin to try and help me sleep. But she had not returned; instead she had sent her brother.
‘Tom told me you were unwell on Monday, when he brought the gin,’ I said now, to Clara. ‘Are you better?’
‘It was just a chill, my dear. Thank you, I am quite well.’
She sipped her tea, thoughtful, as if preparing to say something difficult.
‘Will you attend the inquest?’ she asked.
I pulled a face. ‘I shall not. Unless I am pressed.’
‘But aren’t you curious about what happened?’ she asked, leaning forward in her chair. She put the teacup down on the table and reached for my hand. It took me by surprise; I was not quick enough to move away.
‘Not curious, no. Horrified, shocked. But hearing poor Harriet’s life and death dissected by a collection of men – I cannot imagine a worse spectacle.’
Clara looked at me, surprised. I had gone too far. Perhaps it was better to be inquisitive? Perhaps it was more acceptable to be a gossip, to pore over the business of the good people of the town for your own amusement?
‘Besides,’ I said, in a milder tone, ‘I must attend to the school. Mr Campling will dismiss me if I fail him again.’
‘You are such a good person, Fanny,’ Clara said, releasing my hand at last. ‘I said as much to Father last night. Harriet was fortunate to have you as a friend. Oh! What shall become of the school, at Arundel? And Mr and Mrs Field? Do you suppose they know?’
Richard Field. That man. I tried to suppress a shudder. ‘I am quite sure someone will have written to them. Mr Verrall, I expect. He always seems to take these things upon himself.’
‘God bless him. He is a man of such strength and virtue. I daresay he will have words of comfort for us on the Sabbath. Although he must be terribly upset himself. He and Harriet were such close friends.’
Clara had no concept of the truth of the matter. She had no idea of Harriet’s state of mind, of her condition, of any of it. If she had the slightest notion of what these good men were really like, she would not bring them into the conversation. I thought of the inquest tomorrow, of the men of the town being sworn in to pass judgement upon the case, and I felt quite ill. Should I be there, to see it? To observe them all, salivating over the gossip concerning my poor, dear, dead friend?
Not I. Let them do that without me. I would find another situation, somewhere far away from Bromley. As soon as I possibly could.
Reverend George Verrall
Thursday evening, lecture night at the chapel. Beezley had already unlocked the gate. He has taken it upon himself to guard the keys with his life. He accompanies all who wish to use them, and returns to lock up again afterwards.
‘Can’t take a chance any more,’ he said darkly, when I asked why he was here already.
rather too late for all that now
but he means well
It had been my intention to deliver a sermon on the subject of our dear sister Harriet, of the example she gave to us in life and of the opportunities for growth afforded to us by the occasion of her death, but, as the inquest had thus far failed to deliver a verdict, I supposed now that it might not be prudent.
In previous weeks the lectures had been well attended, in fact by most of the congregation. Tonight, however, the attendance was limited to the deacons. If their wives had intended to accompany them, perhaps they had been told to stay at home.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said. ‘Had you mistaken the evening? The deacons’ meeting is not due this week.’
Beezley spoke first. ‘It seems we have much to discuss, Reverend. But by all means deliver your lecture, if you feel it might help us.’
I drew my lips tightly together, and paused.
breathe, man
slow and deep
‘You are right, of course,’ I said. ‘The lecture can keep for another evening. Benjamin, perhaps you would lead us in prayer.’
I tried to focus my attention on Beezley’s words, asking for the Lord to bless our meeting, but all the while my thoughts strayed to the men gathered here and what their opinions were. My heart raced, which meant my conscience was troubled by some fear. That they were here in judgement of me. That they thought me no longer suitable to lead the congregation.
‘Amen,’ I said, as the prayer drew to a close.
‘Well,’ said Sherver. ‘This is a proper to-do, is it not, Reverend?’
‘We should pray for our sister,’ I said. ‘Before we go any further. We have lost a dear member of our congregation, and a good friend.’ Before any of them could interrupt, I began. ‘Lord God our Father, who came to love us poor sinners, we commend to you the soul of our sister Harriet. May her short life here with us serve as a testimony to the women of our church, and that she be remembered by us all with love. May she rest in peace until the day when you return to us in Glory, in the name of your son Jesus Christ, amen.’
�
�Amen,’ they muttered.
Sweeting was red in the face.
‘The coroner called upon me to testify,’ he said. ‘I did not wish to do it. I had no choice.’
All eyes turned to him.
‘The coroner is conducting everything quickly,’ I said. ‘We should take that as a good sign. The verdict will be reached soon enough, and then we can continue with our lives, and bringing the Gospel of the Lord to the people of the town.’
There was a pause. I believed then that they had been talking about the situation, before I arrived. Perhaps they had even arranged to meet early, for a discussion, without consulting me.
‘What should we do, Reverend?’ asked Sherver.
‘Do?’
He cleared his throat, then. I stared at him. This felt like a challenge.
‘The girl was found in the chapel grounds. Having, to all appearances, drunk poison. It does not reflect well upon us.’
‘Indeed,’ I said.
‘Look here,’ said Sweeting, ‘I’ve been to her mother, this morning. I suggested we might raise a subscription, to help with the costs of the funeral. The poor woman, she is quite overcome with grief.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Very little. I gave her three shillings.’
‘Good of you,’ said Cooper.
Sweeting shot him a look.
‘Gentlemen,’ I said. ‘We are members of a fine, blessed chapel. We make all welcome, regardless of their circumstances. We are Christians not only in word, but in deed. We share what we have; we minister to the poor and to those in need. Charity should not only be offered to those whose hearts are joyful. We weep with them that weep, do we not?’
Murmurs of agreement from some. James Churcher looked up at last, his expression fierce; his eyes were shining, and for a moment I fancied he might have been overcome with emotion. Then he looked down again.
‘But it’s a sin,’ said Sherver. ‘Suicide is a mortal sin. Self-murder.’
Sweeting scoffed at this. ‘What are we, Papists? There’s no such thing as mortal sin. For all have sinned, Joseph, and fall short of the Glory of God.’
Cooper’s face, like stone. ‘The town is full of it. Of her. Why did she choose to undertake the deed in the chapel? Of all the places. Why could she not go into a field, if she wanted to kill herself? Throw herself in the river, maybe, or do it at home?’
They all looked at him.
‘There is no point speculating as to her thoughts,’ I said. ‘All we can do is pray for her soul, and rejoice in the knowledge that she has found peace.’
‘You’re certain, then?’ said Cooper.
‘Of what?’ I asked.
‘That she took her own life.’
Around the table was silence. They all looked at me, anticipating my response.
‘What else?’
‘All those I have spoken to say she was quite happy,’ said Cooper. ‘You’d think, if she was planning something of that nature, she would have appeared low.’
say it, man
say it
I dare you
None of them spoke.
There were moments when they needed a clear direction. They might all be adults, men of the community, but they were still sheep, and they required a shepherd to guide them. They needed a stern voice, the authority of one who knew the Lord, their pastor as well as their friend and servant.
‘You all know Harriet had been visiting me privately. Indeed, some of you may have noted that I spent some time with her on Sunday, here in the vestry.’
They were silent for a moment, then Cooper said, ‘It did not pass unnoticed.’
I glared at him. ‘Then you should also know that Harriet was severely troubled. To outward view she presented herself to all as a woman filled with the Lord’s grace, joyful and happy to serve the Lord in every possible way. And this she was. Yet it was also true that she was deeply unhappy, and she came to me for advice and comfort. And I kept her confidence, and will continue to keep the details of it so. You should all respect that, as I have ministered to each and every one of you in times of trouble. Should you like it now, were I to bring all of those private discussions to the meeting for our consideration?’
They remained silent. I felt as though I had won a small but important victory.
‘Well, then,’ I said. ‘To business. Mr Sweeting, we shall arrange for a subscription, and you shall take charge of collecting it. I will mention it to the congregation on Sunday, and I shall press the coroner to reach a verdict of suicide as swiftly as possible. The work of the Lord in Bromley shall on no account be disrupted. Harriet would wish for that least of all.’
The rest of the meeting, thankfully, proceeded without incident. Sweeting closed the meeting with a prayer and we emerged back into the night later than usual, subdued to a man. I waited with Beezley until they had all passed through the gate.
‘Bad business,’ he said, as we turned into the lane.
here he goes again
‘Before you arrived, Reverend, James Churcher was telling us young Tom is in a bad way. He don’t know what to do with him.’
‘The shock of it, no doubt. Of finding her, like that.’
‘Sweeting’s all right.’
‘Sweeting is a man of mature years, Benjamin. Tom Churcher is little more than a boy, in his head at least, if not in stature. Such things affect us in unexpected ways.’
‘Even so …’ he said, and paused.
spit it out, man
‘Folks like to talk. You know how it is.’
We were outside the bakehouse. I saw the light of the candle beyond the flimsy curtain, a shadow behind it undoubtedly that of Lottie Beezley, listening to every word. Above, at the front, the room occupied by Frances Williams and, occasionally, by Harriet. I had been in there, once.
someone will see you, she said
then we must be careful
my hand
over her mouth
to muffle the cries
‘Let no corrupt communication proceed out of your mouth,’ I said to him, ‘but that which is good to the use of edifying, that it may minister grace unto the hearers. Ephesians, Chapter Four, Verse 29, Benjamin. Perhaps you and Lottie could use that text to inspire your evening prayers?’
He mumbled something in response, which might or might not have been ‘goodnight’.
I left him and walked to the manse, my heart heavy. Tom had been seen, walking with her after dark. I knew this. Other people had told me, more than once.
he is a good man, she said
am I not also a good man?
‘I shall visit tomorrow,’ I said aloud, although there was nobody to hear. ‘I shall visit them, and pray with them.’
Friday, 10th November, 1843
Richard Field
The baby cried all night and all morning until I was ready to smother it; instead I went out.
I should employ a wet-nurse. I had thought this more than once; today I resolved to do something about it, for Maria’s sake as well as mine; she could not escape as I could. How did women stand it? They were a fathomless mystery to me.
I sat in the lounge of my club and ordered coffee and brandy, the former to bring me to a state of full consciousness, the latter to make me less willing to care. It had been a hectic week; I always slept badly when away from home, and then to come back to a household full of noise and general malaise had made me peevish and overtired.
The trouble was that we could ill afford it. Earlier this month the cook had left, leaving us with Annie, the maid, who was practically useless at anything other than putting together a milk pudding and burning the potatoes. By not replacing the cook we had spared enough to pay the butcher’s bill for the first time in more than a year; it had been something of a relief. I could happily live on tick – in fact, I have done so most of my life – but debt made Maria anxious. And when she was anxious the pitch of her voice rose, and, in consequence of that, the baby screamed.
I ate a kipper for breakfast at the club and then returned home. All was quiet. Maria came to meet me from the back parlour, her finger pressed to her lips to shush me before I had so much as uttered a sound.
‘He’s asleep?’ I whispered.
‘At last,’ she said. Then, ‘A letter arrived for you. From Bromley.’
‘Another?’
She had already turned away. ‘It’s not from her, this time.’
I took the letter into the drawing room and closed the door. The handwriting was unfamiliar to me, the script a loose scrawl.
My dear sir, I read, and then turned to the second page to read the signature. Geo. Verrall.
It was to do with Harriet. I knew that straight away; and then soon enough I came to those fateful words:
quite dead
Should I have been more surprised? Should I have been, perhaps, distraught? I had rather the sense of sudden understanding, that a puzzle had finally been completed, and the entire picture revealed.
Harriet should have been here in London by now, but Harriet had sometimes been delayed before, or she had muddled her days, so we expected her whenever she arrived. That she was late this time had been something of a blessing, with the child so fractious and Maria exhausted with it.
This had been Harriet’s home for many months. She had lived here and worked a half-mile away at the school in Hackney; we two – we three, once she suggested her friend Maria might join us – had shared dinners and breakfasts and suppers, we had had lively conversation and laughed together, and played cards, when the mood took us to do so. She was a handsome young woman and she was intelligent, quite the brightest girl who has ever been in my company. We could discuss anything from the nature of faith to the current political situation; I taught her music and painting, when she was so inclined, and in her turn she taught me about love.
I found that I was weeping. Not for the Harriet who had been found dead in Bromley, but for the Harriet who had been here, with us. And, I am a little ashamed to admit, for myself.
Maria came in a few moments later and found me thus, collapsed by the hearth.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 6
