He ran a hand wearily over his face. ‘I believe it is.’
I did not like the man. There was something odd about him, something that went beyond the evangelistic fervour that I customarily abhorred. He had a way of looking through you, as if he could see something in you that nobody else could, something earthly.
‘Poor Harriet,’ I said, staring into his eyes.
‘Our poor departed sister,’ he said. ‘I pray for her daily.’
He wanted to say something else – that she had gone to a better place, perhaps, or that she was now seated at the right hand, or she was with the angels – but he thought the better of it. Perhaps you’re the one who sent her on her way, I wanted to say. For all his piety and his showy good works, he was still a man. He was just as capable of harming a woman as any other.
‘I was interested to hear that you spent time alone with her on that last Sunday,’ I said challengingly, perhaps to gauge his reaction.
He drew himself up to his full height. ‘What of it?’
‘What did you discuss?’
‘Exactly as I told the jury. She asked me to write to the school, to delay her appointment.’
‘But you did not do so.’
‘I did not; as you know, she was missed on the Tuesday. I did not have the opportunity.’
Liar, I thought. ‘You knew she was pregnant,’ I said. ‘The coroner asked every single witness if they knew she was in the family way, except for you. Every one.’
‘The coroner must have suspected that Harriet had confided in me, as indeed she had.’
‘Then you must also know the identity of the man in question.’
‘That, sadly, I do not. And, if I did, I should likely not say, for judgement is the Lord’s, not mine, and not yours.’
I frowned at him. It could be him, of course. He would not admit to it; and saying that Harriet had confided in him as a pastor was a convenient way to excuse their meetings, their – what was it Tom Churcher had said, in court? – their intimacy. And yet, I could not imagine it: Harriet, with this man. She was not a foolish girl, to be taken advantage of by an older man in a position of authority. She had not fallen for him. I would have seen it.
‘I thought if anyone would know, it would be you, Miss Williams.’
‘I? How should I know?’
He smiled. ‘Were you not also in her confidence? Surely more so than I? And yet, you profess not to know that she had found herself … in difficulties.’
Damn the man! ‘She did not share everything with me, Mr Verrall. And, unlike some other people, I do not lie in court, even when my testimony might be surprising or inconvenient to other people.’
I could not admit to him that I had wondered the same thing, many times. Why had she not told me? She knew I did not share her faith. I would not have judged her unfairly. I might have been able to help, in some way, had I known. Perhaps she thought I would not have understood her situation; or that I might have liked her a little less, to have had such evidence that her affections clearly lay elsewhere.
She wanted so badly to be loved, I thought. She wanted so badly for me to love her!
I did not tarry in the town but went back to the Beezleys early, closing the curtains against the early dark. Lying in bed with the covers up to my chin I could hear the Beezleys in their own bedroom. Did they not realise that I could hear every word? Had they heard me, too, when Harriet was here? Had they heard us laughing, and talking, and making fun of Mr Campling? Lottie Beezley wanted me out. She thought me responsible for Harriet’s death. She had not said that aloud, and certainly not to my face, but other things suggested it.
‘The whole town is seething,’ she said.
‘What do you expect me to do about it?’ Beezley responded.
‘When there’s an infection,’ Lottie said mysteriously, ‘you clean out your house. You scrub it from top to bottom, and whatever vermin has caused the stink, you get rid of it along with all the other rats and spiders and whatnot. We need a clean house, Ben, or we shall soon lose customers. And if you shan’t do it, then I will take up the broom.’
She got louder and louder as she said it, as if she wanted me to hear.
I sleep badly these days. I fancy that I hear them coming for me, the people of the town; that they suspect me because I was not born here, and all was well enough before I came. Before Harriet made me her friend. Every knock and bump in the darkness jolts me to wakefulness, and I lie there listening out for the sound of boots on the stairs outside, thinking that at any moment the sergeant will come and take me. Or Ann Metcalf, or Sarah Jessops, or any one of those women who think me unsuited to teaching their girls. What do they think? That I gave her the poison? That I tried to help her to rid herself of her troubles? Do they suppose that I am, then, a danger to the children in my care?
Why do they not look more closely at Richard Field, who likely got her in that predicament in the first place?
In the bedroom next door, Beezley began to snore. I listened to it and tried to sleep, and thought of Harriet again, and still I could not. I did not consider myself the sort of person to run away, and yet I had no wish to remain in a town so blind to its own faults and inadequacies!
It felt that the world was twisted, and that the town was mired with guilt and suspicion and hatred. This was not the Bromley I knew. Even Clara had little time for me now, although she was caring for her brothers and for her father. She did not suspect me at first, but I thought she had listened to the gossips and had now altered her opinion of me. She was too close to the chapel to see it for what it was; she thought too highly of the reverend. One day she might see what he is like. One day the sergeant might come for him, instead of me, and a curious sort of justice that should be!
January, 1844
Reverend George Verrall
The inquest has been delayed for some months, for no apparent reason. None in the town has heard word from the coroner, and there is no sign of a new meeting, or any progress towards a verdict. For the most part, I was busy, as I always am, with Christmas, although I cannot admit that my heart was full of good cheer. The chapel was perhaps half full on Christmas Day. The numbers attending had fallen off since November, despite my best efforts in paying calls on some of those who had been missing.
Andrew Griffins had been unwell, and had been attending at the parish church which was not quite so far to walk. When his foot healed, he said, he would be back at chapel with his family.
be ye steadfast, immovable
forasmuch as ye know that your labour is not in vain in the Lord
At least Mary Costin was more honest. She told me that she didn’t like to come, not ‘with all of that bad business’. I told her the bad business was unfortunate, but it had nothing to do with the chapel, and very little to do with me, other than that I felt I had failed the girl by not being a better friend to her.
‘But who did it, Reverend?’ she said. ‘That’s what we are all wondering.’
‘Who knows, indeed,’ I responded. ‘It is a matter for the coroner, after all. All we can do is pray for our dear sister’s soul, and guard each other closely, and take care of God’s children and trust that He will keep us safe from the wolves that surround us at every turn.’
‘T’weren’t you, then?’ she cackled, showing me her remaining three teeth.
I did not dignify her joke with a response. If she had even half a notion to believe her pastor guilty, I thought, then perhaps the Lord was leading her to worship with a different congregation, and that was not a bad thing. Let her infect another flock with her vitriol; I wanted none of it for my sheep.
That Sunday I put aside the sermon I had prepared on the Lord’s Last Supper, and instead took as my text the first verses of James, Chapter One. My brethren, count it all joy when ye fall into divers temptations; knowing this, that the trying of your faith worketh patience.
I stared out at the congregation – a number I could have counted out within the space of a minute – and at the faces befor
e me. Some of them expectant, waiting for the blessing of God’s Holy Word. Some of them curious, perhaps expecting me to say something else – a confession, perhaps. And still others scowling or looking at their feet or hands or each other, or whispering, or smirking, or nudging each other and pointing.
Do you not see, I told them, that we are being tested? That the enemies of the church are all around us, waiting for us to tear ourselves asunder. That just as St Paul feared the Corinthians would fall to envyings, wraths, strifes, backbitings and whisperings, so should they. Is not the reward of Heaven great enough to keep them from harming each other? Is the Lord Himself not enough for them?
I said all of these things and I found my voice growing louder as my anger grew. But I had not prepared the sermon, and I found myself straying from the sanctity of the text and into my own, desperate fury. The whispering and the pointing stopped, but in its place I saw the shock on their faces, and the fear in some of them, and I thought to myself yes and you may well look pale and I shouted to them that the Lord sees what is in their hearts, and may they all be sorry for it and repent, for the truth will out.
how dare they?
how dare they challenge?
when the Lord comes again you shall be humbled before Him
And the Word of the Lord flowed through my vitriol and left them all afraid for their very souls, which is, indeed, as it should be. Looking out across the rows of faces, I chanced upon Sarah’s. Her eyes were closed and the smile on her face was serene. She knows, I thought, she understands the price of it. That their ignorance and their lack of faith will bring them to Satan and carry them off to their own destruction.
Afterwards, she said she thought I spoke well.
We sat at dinner and I was somewhat morose, as I often am after a sermon of that nature. ‘But they will not listen,’ I said. ‘I pray for their souls constantly, and yet they cannot see the danger that lies all around. That we should be the very models of stead fast ness and virtue, and instead they are shrinking from the task.’
‘There is much work to be done,’ she said, calm as always, ‘and you are as much guilty of excitement as they.’
Afterwards, my mood low, I took tea in the study and thought of Harriet. She had been the source of so much trouble, and yet she had proved to be a source of rich inspiration, too. In such things I see the Hand of God, leading me forward as He always has.
I prayed for guidance and opened my Bible, and chanced upon Proverbs: He that covereth his sins shall not prosper: but whoso confesseth and forsaketh them shall have mercy.
Should I, then, confess?
Covering Letter
The White House
Widmore Lane
Bromley
Mr William Rose
Messrs Rippingham and Rose, Solicitors
17, Great Prescot Street
London
15th January, 1844
Dear William,
Pursuant to the recent events here in the town, I have decided it would be prudent to describe in detail the facts of the case as I see them, as they relate to me. I would ask you to leave the enclosed document sealed, and perhaps bring it to light only in the event of my arrest for the murder of Harriet Monckton.
I am, of course, hopeful that such a circumstance would never arise, and in that case, and in the event of my predeceasing Sarah, perhaps you would undertake to destroy the document and leave it forever unread.
As for the rest, make of it what you will.
I shall look forward to seeing you in Town in the near future, and until that happy occasion I remain,
Yours most sincerely,
Geo. Verrall
Confess your faults one to another, and pray one for another, that ye may be healed. The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much.
James, Chapter Five, Verse 17
What good will it do, to confess? Will it change anything? Will it bring back the keenness of my younger years in the ministry, set alight my words and cause the good people of Bromley to turn from their sin, from their doubt? All I know is that everything has changed, here. All I know is that what was light is now grown dim; what was fellowship has become suspicion. There is a murderer among us, I hear them say, and they look to their neighbours and friends, and to me, and nobody trusts anyone any more.
What, then, must be done here? I have prayed hour after hour until my knees are chafed. I have walked the streets, and counselled my flock, and prayed with them; I have begged them to think to the future and trust in the Lord. But still the doubts remain.
And there is a nagging sense that I am the cause of all this, that I am to blame. For if these dark times began with the murder of Harriet Monckton, then surely the dreadful history of that girl is threaded through with my own, and the mistakes I made are what led directly to her death.
So, then, I have decided to confess. To you, William Rose, my solicitor, for you are as good as anyone. Can I trust you not to reveal this terrible tale? For it is not yet ended; there is still no verdict, and who knows when the inquest shall resume, and what condition the town will be in when it does.
Are you paying attention? Are you comfortable, and warm? For it may take me some time. Perhaps I should make this confession brief and to the point, and yet in order to understand what happened with Harriet Monckton it is necessary to go further back. In the event of this account being needed to provide evidence in my defence, then perhaps you can decide what is relevant and what is not.
And so, Rose, I shall start at the very beginning.
Before I was called, I had ownership of a small tallow chandlery business in Peckham, and through the course of that occupation I became friends with a man named Stephen Halley, who owned a stables in Woolwich. His brother, Robert, was a teacher of Classics at the Highbury College, the renowned dissenting academy, and, knowing that I had a great deal of interest in the Scripture, and esoteric matters, he called upon me regularly to dine with his brother.
On one fine Saturday evening, I was invited to dine at the college with Robert Halley, and Stephen, and some other gentlemen. One of these was John Caney, a man of religious habits who divided his time between London and Yorkshire, where he owned a fine house and some three hundred acres. He seemed to be impressed by me in some way. Over the course of the evening, we had some intense discussion relating to the Book of Revelation, and how we as good servants of Christ should interpret it.
One would think, perhaps, that John Caney would have felt in some way intimidated by the presence of so many religious men. However, I believe rather that he was enjoying the discussion, exploring his own beliefs and improving his knowledge of the doctrines of the faith. At the end of the evening he asked me to dine at his house in Chelsea on the following weekend, it occurred to me that he perceived me as some sort of personal spiritual guide.
Over post-dinner cigars, Mr Halley told me that John Caney was a man of some considerable independent wealth; a week later I was nonetheless taken aback by the grandeur of his London abode. To my pleasure and surprise, I was the only dinner guest. I dined with the family, which consisted of John Caney himself, his wife Mary, their three daughters, and John’s elder sister. There was, on that evening, some talk of religion, but far less than I had supposed. I had been seated next to John Caney’s eldest daughter, whose name was Sarah. She was three years older than me, that is to say, twenty-six years old. She was, sadly, not what you might describe as a beauty, for her complexion was a little sallow and her eyes widely spaced, but they were the same bright blue as those of her father, and whenever we had the chance to converse, she fixed me with rapt attention.
There have, even, been times in the years since when I have wondered if John Caney had seen some potential in me at our first meeting and had effected that intention swiftly, before I had a chance to realise what was happening.
For I thought myself in love, that very evening. No conversation passed between us that anyone could describe as indelicate; no words
of affection, no promises, no sighs. But I left the house a little before midnight and danced all the way back to Peckham. It was almost daylight by the time I arrived, and my sister, Ruth – who lived with me and acted as my housekeeper – had been almost beside herself with worry at my absence.
I wrote to John Caney immediately and thanked him for his most excellent hospitality, and apologised that my own abode was too humble to permit me to offer an invitation in return without considerable embarrassment. I told him that I should be happy to meet him, perhaps, in a coffee house or hostelry in town, and continue our religious discussions.
He took pity on me and invited me once more for dinner. As I had hoped, again I was seated next to Sarah.
This time, our conversation was more personal. She spoke of her own religious feeling, how she had longed since a young age to be married to a good Christian man, and to perhaps one day fulfil her own religious desires by becoming a vicar’s wife.
It was very soon after that evening that I received my own calling into leadership. A cynical man might say that the two events were connected; for my own part, I remember the evening at the chapel I attended, a Lutheran chapel in Peckham, and feeling a burning within my own chest as the minister preached about being compelled to serve. In fact he was talking about serving the Lord in whatever work we undertook, but it felt as though he was speaking to me, and me alone. I had been sitting there thinking about Sarah – she was, then, never far from my thoughts – and then I had the clearest awareness of what I had to do.
At the end of the sermon, the minister said that he had a strong sensation that someone in the chapel had received a message from the Holy Spirit, asking them to make a change in their lives, and to accept Christ as their saviour, and that that person should make themselves known to him.
In fact he said this at the end of almost every sermon. Most weeks, some poor soul got to their feet and came to the front of the chapel. I myself had scoffed, albeit internally, wondering if the Holy Spirit was called to the Lutheran Church in Peckham every Sunday at a quarter to noon, and if He was getting a little bored of it.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 19
