Mr Pearce then asked me if I had walked out with Harriet.
‘Once or twice I walked her home,’ I said. ‘But it was Emma I was walking out with at the time.’
‘Did Harriet Monckton know this?’
‘Yes.’
The shop door opened then, and it was Emma. I was relieved to see her and scared to see her at the same time, for she looked at the men standing there and at me, and back to them, and said, ‘What’s all this?’
Mr Meadows looked at me, and said that would be all for today but that I should expect to see them again, and they nodded to Emma, and left.
She waited until the door closed behind them, and went to the window to see them walking away. Then she turned back to me. ‘Well?’
‘They’re the detectives from London, Emma. They just asked me some questions,’ I said.
‘And you answered?’
‘Of course I did,’ I said, not wanting to admit to her that I had requested for them to wait for my father to return and had answered hardly anything at all.
‘So why did they say they were going to come back? What do they want with you?’
‘I don’t know!’ I said, and I didn’t, but my voice rose, and sounded guilty even to me.
She took off her bonnet and put on her apron, scowling. ‘I once believed it was a good thing, that Harriet was gone,’ she said. ‘I never expected the whole town to be still talking about it two years later.’
Frances Williams
Returning to Bromley has been a very odd business, after so long out of it. The place was instantly familiar and also very strange. The sense of unease increased as we passed places I recognised. At Beckenham the foreboding manifested itself as an uncomfortable twist in my stomach.
The coach brought us down the High Street and I saw that the workhouse has been completely demolished; in its place a row of houses is being built. I wondered where the poor of the town were to go for relief.
I had written ahead to the Bell Inn for a room, which in my day had always been the most comfortable and reasonably priced establishment. I had addressed my letter to Mr Davis, the landlord of the Bell, but it was his daughter who had replied. She told me that her father had passed away not long after I had left the town, but she had taken over the business and would be very pleased to welcome me back and offer me her best room. I was glad of her kind words, and wrote to accept.
The White Hart profited from its position as the town’s main coaching inn, and the unwary traveller stepped off the coach and straight across its threshold, not bothering to look elsewhere; but the Bell was across the other side of the Market Place. Thus, when I dismounted the coach, my limbs and back stiff from hours in the jolting carriage, my clothes creased, I had to walk a little way before I reached my accommodation.
Little had changed in the town itself. There was the Market Place, with the fine market building at its centre; there was Mr Storer’s confectionery shop, renowned for its fine gingerbread; here the ironmonger’s, there Cooper’s yard; Isard’s butcher’s shop, and Harvey’s sheds and yards, the stables and the paddock behind. In the market itself the costermongers and barrow boys were selling fruit and loaves and oysters and flowers of every possible variety. The town was alive with it.
This place where I had been so happy, and so very troubled.
As I walked on, I found my eyes drawn to those businesses whose owners had had a direct bearing upon the matter which brought me back to this place. Sweeting’s house, from which he ran his plumbing business; Joseph Milstead’s, carpenter and upholsterer, who had provided Harriet’s coffin which Tom Churcher had carried to the church. As if the thought of that man could conjure him up, I noticed his father’s shop, the sign over the door that said CHURCHER AND SON and, below it, in smaller letters, BOOT AND SHOEMAKER.
I should have gone inside, but as I crossed the square I saw Emma Milstead come out, rub at a spot on the window, and go back in again. As she turned I saw her swollen belly: Tom Churcher must have married her after all.
I checked my watch and saw that, after all, there was but little time to spare. I carried on to the Bell and, having been shown to a room that was plain and yet warm and comfortable, I changed my dress and went out again, to the Swan Inn, and to the inquest.
Richard Field
I was called to Bromley again in the early part of the year, for the resumption of the inquest. I had thought the whole business done with, concluded without me somehow, unreported in the newspapers, when in fact the business was resurrected unexpectedly with the arrival of the coroner’s letter.
Maria, pregnant with our second child, had been strangely unconcerned when I told her I had to return to give evidence a second time. She merely sighed and said if I had to go, then that was that. Thus released from my marital responsibilities, I wrote to book a room at the White Hart again, and took the coach down to Bromley.
The room where the second inquest was to be held was part of the Swan Inn, and was a low-roofed building which rambled on as far as the corner of the Beckenham Lane. The inn itself stood back from the road to allow the carts and carriages to pass freely around the sharp bend and onwards to London. I had spent some time walking up and down the High Street looking for it, for the coroner’s letter had directed me to the Swan and Mitre. But this had to be the place, for half the town’s population seemed to be heading through a door in the single-storey extension at the far end.
I joined them, and found myself in a room packed full of people all talking at once. The noise was overwhelming, and the aroma of bodies and clothes and malt and hops overpowering, for this had until recently been a brewing room. The innkeeper, whose name I learned was Matthews, was engaged with two or three members of his staff in setting out chairs at the back of the room, whilst at the same time trying to dissuade those canny members of the townsfolk from helping themselves to chairs from the store room. ‘Only for the gentlefolk!’ he repeated. ‘Hold off, there! Chairs for the gentlefolk – you can stand, right enough, Robert Cooper!’
The coroner’s assistant, a young man with a fair complexion and pink-cheeked with his own importance, was directing the operation from behind the table at the front. The jury had been seated on low benches to the side, and they were talking amongst themselves and watching the chaos. ‘Mr Matthews!’ called the young man. ‘Matthews, I say! We shall have to close the doors. There simply isn’t the room!’
Eventually the door closed and those who remained outside were forced to listen at the window, which thankfully remained wide open. Every opportunity for fresh air in this enclosed, darkened space, was much appreciated by those within it.
The coroner arrived moments later. Without his even speaking, an expectant hush spread through the assembled crowd. I looked about the crowd and saw faces I recognised; Verrall, taller than the rest, bare-headed, wearing his black gown, setting himself apart from the rest of them; Frances Williams was there, too, and several of those I had seen at the previous inquest.
‘Gentlemen,’ the coroner began, addressing the jury, ‘your attendance upon this sorry occasion is, again, appreciated. We are resuming the inquest into the body of the deceased Harriet Monckton, who was found in the privy behind Bromley Chapel on the seventh of November, 1843. You are aware, I am sure, of the circumstances of this tragic affair, and yet it would be remiss of me not to ensure that the evidence as presented at the last meeting is presented to you once more. You may expect to see many of the same witnesses who spoke before you in 1843. It may be helpful, therefore, to treat this inquest as a completely fresh start. Thus, the verdict reached by the jury will be an honest, true and fair one, based solely on evidence and not upon any supposition, gossip or act of imagination that might have taken place in the intervening period.
‘Mr Leadbeater, our first witness, please.’
The young man stood, and called for Sarah Monckton.
Harriet’s mother came forward then, attired in a green serge gown, her bonnet trimmed with black vel
vet. Her testimony was brief, and the coroner was about to dismiss her, when someone immediately to my left spoke up.
‘A question for the jury, sir.’
The coroner looked peevish at the interruption, and then, upon seeing that it came from Reverend Verrall, he set his mouth in a line. ‘What is it, Mr Verrall?’
‘It should be asked perhaps whether the estimable lady is aware of any illness in her daughter, in the months leading up to her death? I should have thought that a relevant question, sir, as we are keeping an open mind as to the cause of it.’
The coroner paused, perhaps considering whether to allow the question to stand, and then he turned to the witness and repeated it.
Mrs Monckton added that Harriet had been very poorly about a month before her death, and had been unable to attend the Sunday School because of it, but that she had recovered well enough the following day.
That said, the witness was excused, and almost immediately was called the next: Joseph Milstead, carpenter and undertaker to the town of Bromley, who testified that he had buried the deceased, and was still owed the sum of three pounds and eighteen shillings for it. After Milstead, the postmaster, Mr Acton, was called. There was some talk of an anonymous letter addressed to the coroner, but posted to some other person; Mr Acton asserted that the letter had not passed through the hands of the Bromley postal service and must, despite the postmark upon it, have been delivered in person.
Then George Sweeting was called. He looked at the very same time both uncomfortable and pleased, dressed in a tweed jacket which might, perhaps, have been a good fit in his younger days. He was first asked about the night when Harriet was found, emphasising that it was Churcher, not he, who had suggested that the chapel should be searched, and Churcher who had tried the chapel gate and found it unlocked. There was a murmur amongst the crowd and I judged from the comments that his testimony had changed in that regard. He was asked about his connection with the chapel, and at that he puffed out his chest and said he was superintendent of the Sunday Schools, and was at present also a deacon.
The coroner then sought to dismiss Sweeting from the inquest but he raised his hand to indicate he had something further to say.
‘Yes?’
‘My opinion, sir, is that the deceased took the poison of her own accord.’
The coroner looked as if he might question the witness further, but then seemed to think the better of it, thanked him, and told him once again that he was dismissed.
Mrs Monckton was then recalled. She then volunteered said that Mr Sweeting’s opinion of her daughter was not what she would consider to be a very Christian one, but that she expected nothing less from a chapel that followed what she called ‘unusual practices’. From the back of the room, Sweeting gave out a ‘Well, I never!’ and some other shout, and Verrall pushed through the crowd and hushed him, and for a moment they stood toe to toe, and I thought a fight might break out; I glanced back to the front of the room and saw a curious sort of smile cross the face of Mrs Monckton, and then the coroner called for order, and dismissed the witness for the second time.
My feet were beginning to ache from standing, and I shifted a little to relieve them. I considered going outside for a walk, as others were doing in the minutes between the calling of witnesses, but then Thomas Churcher was called and I stayed in my place.
Churcher repeated his testimony, saying that he was with Sweeting when the body was found. He was asked who had a key for the chapel gate; he replied that the keys were kept by Mr Beezley, that he used this set and returned them whenever he needed to enter the chapel to return his music. He said anyone might obtain the keys from Mr Beezley without his knowledge as they were hung up in his shop.
The most natural witness to be called after that was Beezley himself. He was asked first about Miss Williams, and he stated that the deceased had a habit of visiting Miss Williams, who took rooms at the upstairs of his house. He last saw Harriet during the afternoon of the day she went missing. He said she was in his bakehouse, looking out of the window, and then eventually went up to Miss Williams’s room.
I heard a stir behind me at that moment and I looked back to see that Miss Williams herself was standing beside me. She met my glance for a moment and nodded a greeting. I nodded in reply.
The coroner asked Beezley what his connection was with the chapel.
‘I am clerk and deacon,’ he answered.
‘And you keep a set of keys?’
‘Yes, sir. And, whatever Tom Churcher thinks, they are never out of my possession, unless some legitimate person has had cause to use them.’
‘Whom would you determine to be a legitimate person, Mr Beezley?’
‘Why, Mr Verrall, of course; Mr Sweeting, Tom Churcher, or the woman who cleans.’
He was then asked whether he had cause to use prussic acid or essential oil of almonds in his business. He replied that he did not, nor did he use volatile salts. And with that, he, too, was dismissed.
Once again my desire for fresh air was thwarted by my own curiosity, for next was called Miss Williams. I regarded her, how she held herself – very erect, for a woman who was as tall as many men – and how she looked. Her hair was impeccably neat, with no stray strands or curls visible under her bonnet. She was not what one might describe as handsome, but she had fine, clear eyes, and a steady sort of defiance that might, at first, appear to indicate a prickly nature. But Harriet had been fond of her. Perhaps she was the sort of woman who only revealed her true nature to her closest friends.
‘Miss Williams, you have heard the previous witness saying that you lodged at his address. Is that true?’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘And how did you come to know the deceased?’
‘I was schoolmistress at Mr Campling’s school. Miss Monckton assisted me there at times, particularly when I was unwell or indisposed, as she was a capable and talented teacher herself.’
‘Please tell us what you remember from the night the deceased went missing.’
‘Harriet was to stay with me that night, as I was ill. She left to post a letter, and I expected her back within the hour.’
‘Can you remember anything of your conversations that evening?’
Miss Williams hesitated then, as if struggling to recall, then said, ‘I believe we spoke about the previous day’s sermons.’
‘Did she seem in any way troubled?’
‘On the contrary,’ Miss Williams said, and glanced purposefully around the room as she did so, fixing all of us with a look so certain we had no choice but to believe it. ‘She appeared in good health and in excellent spirits.’
‘Miss Williams, you mentioned the deceased had left you to post a letter. Was she in the habit of corresponding regularly?’
‘She was a frequent correspondent, yes.’
‘And was there anybody with whom the deceased corresponded particularly frequently?’
‘Several, sir.’
‘Do you know the names of those people?’
Miss Williams hesitated, then, with an expression fixed on her face that indicated she believed it was none of the court’s business and that she had little time to spare for producing a pointless list. Nevertheless, after a moment’s reflection, she continued, ‘Richard Field, and his wife; her brother and sister that lived outside of the town; and Mr Carter.’
‘Did the deceased show you any of their letters to her?’
‘Many of them, yes.’
‘And did any of them seem particularly curious, or concerning, in the light of what we now know of the deceased’s unfortunate fate?’
In the stifling room, my breath seemed to falter, and my heart with it. I should have taken the chance for fresh air before now, I thought, hoping that I should not faint or be otherwise overcome.
I breathed through my nose and swallowed, straining to hear Miss Williams’s reply.
She hesitated again, but this time appeared troubled, as if unsure how to proceed. ‘There was one matter of
concern. Mr Carter’s letters. I thought him quite improper in his tone.’
I felt the weight of it fall from my shoulders. She had spared me!
‘You thought his letters improper?’
‘I did not say that. I had no concerns over his writing to her. But his tone was very free.’
The coroner conferred for a moment with his assistant, and then said, ‘Are you aware of the circumstances under which the deceased came to know Mr Carter?’
‘He has preached at Mr Verrall’s chapel. I assume that is where they met.’
‘You know Mr Carter yourself?’
‘Only through his acquaintance with my friend. I met him in person only once, after a tea meeting Harriet had attended at Mr Verrall’s. I encountered her in the fields as she was on her way back to her mother’s, and he was accompanying her. She introduced me and they went on their way.’
‘What did Mr Verrall make of that acquaintance?’
‘I have no idea. You must ask him yourself.’
The coroner set his face against her, then, perhaps thinking her impertinent, for all his stupid questions. He dismissed Miss Williams and called the next witness, Mary Ann Monckton. I felt certain that she would have little to add to her previous testimony, so I took the opportunity to vacate the room along with a half-dozen others, including Miss Williams herself.
She made to walk away, but I called her back.
‘Forgive me,’ I said, ‘I should stay close, as I believe I am to be called.’
‘I wish you luck with their pointless questions,’ she said, under her breath.
‘They were, rather, weren’t they?’ I said, smiling.
Her face almost cracked with the effort of returning my smile. I thought perhaps she did not smile often, which was rather a shame, as it improved her countenance considerably.
‘Thank you,’ I said.
She knew what I meant, although for a moment she looked surprised. In reply to me, all she did was nod.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 24
