I looked at her face, twisted with rage, spittle on her lower lip.
‘You had better think of something to say, Tom, to satisfy those detectives, because they can see right through you and so can I and we all know you’re hiding something. I’m sick of trying to protect you when you won’t even help yourself, you cowering excuse for a man! Heaven help this babe of mine, with you for a father.’
She carried on for a while, slamming and shouting. I listened but did not listen. It would not last forever. In the morning she would be sorry. She always was.
Thursday, 5th March, 1846
Richard Field
Contrary to her previous assertion, Frances Williams was not present at the next meeting of the jury.
I had been warned of the meeting by William Pawley, landlord at the White Hart, who had promised to inform me of any developments in the case after my return to London. I wondered if Miss Williams lacked a similar source of information in the town.
The first witness called was Clara Churcher. I could not recall having heard her testimony before, and I hoped she had something worthwhile to say. She appeared in a plain dress of a dark green fabric, with a dark satin sash about her waist, and a bonnet lined with green silk. The effect of it, against her hair, was really rather beautiful.
She was first sworn, and then asked about her family. She stated that her family consisted of herself, a sister, and four brothers, John, Henry, Thomas, and James. The two former had not lived at home for some years, and Tom had left home upon his marriage, a year and a half ago.
‘Please tell us how you knew the deceased,’ asked the coroner.
‘I have known Harriet for many years, but I came to know her better recently, as she helped me with the Sunday School at the chapel, when she was between situations.’
‘And what do you recall about the circumstances of her death?’
‘The last time I saw her alive was on Monday, the day before her body was discovered. I saw her in Miss Williams’s apartments around six o’clock that evening. Miss Williams was ill, and there was very little conversation about anything but her illness.’
Here Clara Churcher looked about the room, as if she was expecting to see Frances Williams there, and was almost relieved that she was not.
‘Please continue,’ the coroner said.
‘I left Harriet with Miss Williams, and promised to return, to bring her some spirits, to relieve the spasms under which she was suffering. But at home I felt suddenly unwell myself, and so I sent my brother to take the spirits in my stead.’
‘Your brother Tom?’
‘Yes. He had come to Miss Williams’s room to walk me home, and after that he took back the spirits.’
‘Were you aware of any attachment the deceased had with another person?’
‘I was not.’
‘Not even your brother Tom?’
She hesitated, then, and appeared to summon up some inner reserve to enable her to continue. ‘Tom is a kind man. He walks home with anyone who asks him. Nothing is meant by it, no matter what the people of the town might say.’
‘You do not believe he was courting her?’
‘No, sir, I do not. On the contrary, Tom was promised to another, who is now his wife. Everyone knew it. Harriet knew it. And besides …’
She hesitated, and the coroner pressed her to continue.
‘I merely wished to say, sir, that Harriet used to speak as if there was nobody in Bromley good enough for her.’
I felt my heart twist a little, at that. It reminded me of something Harriet had said to me once. That she should not meet anyone she loved as well as me. But that was the old Harriet, of course. The good, kind Harriet. Not the hypocrite, the harlot, the betrayer.
‘Miss Churcher, could we please now turn to the events of Monday evening? After you returned home, did your brother follow soon after, having delivered the spirits to Miss Williams?’
‘Indeed, sir. My father and all the family were in bed by nine o’clock. Tom came back about half-past eight, and did not go out after.’
‘And how can you be certain that he did not leave the house after you all retired?’
She hesitated, again, and then told a most curious tale.
‘We all slept, and then, in the middle of the night, I was awoken by a noise, which I fancied was the gate at the back of the house moving. And I was frightened, and went into my father’s room, where Tom and my brother James also slept. I called for my father, and told him of my alarm, but he said it was nonsense as the house had been properly secured, and the wind must have shook the gate. I went back to bed, sir, but could not settle, and so I caused him, my father that is, to go downstairs with Tom, and I got a candle and lit them down; everything was safe.’
‘You are quite certain,’ the coroner asked, ‘that Tom was asleep in the room when you first went in?’
‘Yes, sir.’
The room was silent, holding its collective breath. To me, despite her assertion, the explanation was clear: Tom Churcher had gone out, when the whole family was asleep, and upon returning to the house had made a noise which had disturbed his sister.
And then she turned that theory quite on its head.
‘The following day my alarm was much on my mind, and I spoke of it to Mrs Allen, our neighbour in the house next door to ours. Mrs Allen said that I should not be alarmed, for her husband was in the habit of getting up in the night and making a noise.’
The coroner made a note.
‘And your brother Tom: what is the nature of his association with Mr Verrall?’
‘They are very intimate friends,’ she said, and looked to say more, but stopped herself.
‘What have you heard Mr Verrall say on the subject?’
‘Only that he wished it could be found out,’ Clara said, ‘as do we all.’
At this the coroner considered his notes once more, and finding nothing further to ask, dismissed Clara Churcher. The next to be called was her father, James Churcher. I had seen him regularly about the town; a handsome man, in his senior years now beginning to stoop, which gave him a deferential appearance. His voice, however, was strong and resonant, and the people gathered were quiet when he spoke. His testimony, however, was but brief: he replied to the coroner that his daughter had been entirely correct. All the family were in bed, asleep, by nine o’clock on the night Harriet died, and to the best of his knowledge, other than checking the door was secure, they had all remained in their beds.
Next called was Mary Ann Hopperton, whose daughter Elizabeth had spoken at the workhouse on the same day I gave my testimony, about having seen Harriet pass by that evening. On this occasion the mother was examined, and said that her daughter’s previous deposition had been incomplete.
‘In what regard?’ asked the coroner.
‘Elizabeth neglected to state that she had also seen young Tom Churcher pass our house two or three times on that night, the last time being about a quarter of an hour after the deceased had passed towards the chapel.’
‘Why did she not say this when she was called to appear?’ asked the coroner.
‘For fear that it might bring Tom Churcher into trouble, and if innocent that she should be blamed, sir.’
‘It is the business of the jury to decide the relevance of any facts, Mrs Hopperton. All that is required of the witness – as stated in the oath – is that you should tell the truth, and omit nothing.’
‘She’s very sorry about it now, sir.’
‘Did she tell anyone else about seeing Mr Churcher on the night of the 6th?’
‘Only Mr Sweeting, sir. She had mentioned it at an early stage of the investigation, and some conversation took place between them.’
‘What conversation?’
‘You should need to ask her, sir.’
‘Or, indeed, Mr Sweeting, whom I see is in the room. Thank you, Mrs Hopperton, unless you have any further revelations, you may step down.’
Accordingly, Sweeting was called.
The coroner reprimanded him for not stating the circumstance at the time, and asked if he had anything further to add to Mrs Hopperton’s testimony as regards his conversation with her daughter. He said that he remembered the conversation but indistinctly, and thought that he had said to her to pay it no mind. He said if he should have the same conversation with her today, perhaps he should direct her rather differently.
The coroner asked him what he meant by that.
Sweeting replied, ‘When first questioned, sir, about the finding of the body, I was in a state of some distress, as I am sure you can imagine. The searching for Miss Monckton and the finding of her is, or should I say was, rather confused in my mind. But now, sir, having had a proper time to reflect upon it, I thought that it was rather strange, that Tom Churcher should suggest the chapel as a place to look for her.’
‘Why should that be strange?’
‘Well, sir, because all day people had been searching. The chapel should really have been one of the first places, as the deceased was accustomed to going there. One would assume, sir, that it was as searched as searched could be. And yet Tom Churcher led me in that direction, and told me that we should look, and he tested the gate, and to my surprise – and apparently his surprise too, although I can’t rightly be certain as he was surprised at all, come to think of it – the gate was open and he let me go first down the passage, and so I was the first to find the body.’
He gave a dramatic shudder and raised his eyes to the ceiling, as if some sort of relief from his distress might be found there.
‘You think Tom Churcher intended you to find the body?’
‘The more I think of it, sir, the more certain I am that he knew what was to be found there, and didn’t want to be the one to find it, lest suspicion should fall on him. Far rather it should fall on me, a respectable married man, and a deacon of the chapel! I cannot speak to him, or any of his family.’
The coroner breathed a heavy sigh. He asked if Sweeting had anything further to add that was of a factual nature and not supposition, and Sweeting said he had not, at present.
The business thus completed, the coroner adjourned the jury for a further fortnight, and I was about in time to catch the last coach to London.
Wedged between two ladies and their voluminous skirts, I had plenty of time during that dark journey to think about the course of events, and I found my thoughts tending to Miss Williams. What would she have made of it all? I wondered whether she might appreciate a letter from me, but then I realised that I had no address to which I could send such a letter. Perhaps I could send it care of the school, at Shifnal? How many schools could there be in a small Shropshire town? And then I thought that such a personal letter was probably not to be entrusted to a vague address. And perhaps the next meeting would, after all, be the last; it felt to me that the business of the jury had descended into gossip and supposition, and could not possibly be helpful to the outcome.
Thursday, 19th March, 1846
Richard Field
With each sitting of the jury, having to leave Maria grew harder and harder. She was not alone; she had a nurse with her permanently now, both to keep the boy occupied and to assist his mother, now that the second child was expected. God willing, there should still be a few weeks before the birth of our second child might trouble us, but the sooner the jury were directed to reach a verdict, the better.
‘Must you go, Richard?’ she had asked, her eyes pleading.
‘It should not be too much longer. Perhaps this next sitting will produce the verdict,’ I said, kissing the top of her head.
‘You have said that each time,’ she said. ‘And still nothing. Perhaps there will never be one.’
I assured here that there had to be a verdict, as the government had insisted that one should be brought, and that the coroner was only exercising diligence, and for that we should at least be grateful. Whatever had happened to her, Harriet deserved to have her story told.
‘But that’s just it,’ she said. ‘It’s not Harriet, is it? Not our Harriet. It’s some manufactured creature, that exists only for this blessed inquest: something to be summoned up like a spirit, to be examined and pored over, to be sneered at and judged. Harriet deserves to be remembered as she was to us, not picked at like carrion.’
She apologised a minute later, but it was too late. All the way to Bromley I had that image in my mind, of our Harriet, being consumed by the vicious vultures of the town. Perhaps Maria was right: she deserved to be remembered, as she was, loved by us both, once upon a time; and not as she had been latterly.
To banish the distressing thoughts from my head, I gazed out of the coach window as the dawn began to brighten the sky, and allowed myself a brief reminiscence: Harriet in my bed. Maria – she was not my wife then – had gone out, taking the maid with her, to see her dressmaker about a new gown. It was the cook’s half-day. Harriet had come to my study, and, wordlessly, had placed her arms about my neck, and kissed my cheek.
I think I said her name. I did not ask her to desist; on the contrary. I turned to face her and placed my hands upon her bodice, and she stopped me and asked me to take her to bed.
She had been distant with me, and a little sad, and there were days that she seemed to avoid our company, allowing us to be alone, even knowing, perhaps, what that would mean. I might have assumed that she had found another lover, but I knew that was not the case, for I am certain she would have told me.
So. Maria was at the dressmakers, and not expected back for an hour or more. We took full advantage of the empty house. She was intoxicating to me in a way that she had never been during our previous times together. She was glorious, and colourful, her skin so lustrous it glowed in the bright, hot light of the bedroom. Her hair, loosened, was shining and soft in my hands. Her eyes, her white teeth, her cheeks – I could go on. Harriet had never been plain, but on that one occasion she was a siren, a temptress; utterly irresistible.
Afterwards we lay beside each other and talked, and I confess it crossed my mind briefly that I had fallen in love with the wrong girl. I had thought Maria was the only woman to marry, and now here was Harriet, who had been such a joy, such an intelligent, kind, thoughtful friend, as well as a generous lover – why had I never thought to make her my wife? I had nearly admitted this very curious thought to her, aloud. I am glad I did not. Perhaps she knew my affection towards her had changed; perhaps this was the moment she decided to quit London and return to the town of her birth, for I remember her face darkening just as a cloud passed over the sun, outside. She said, ‘We must dress, for Maria will be home sooner than we think,’ and we washed, and dressed, and Harriet went to the kitchen to prepare some supper for us all, and then Maria was home, and no further connection passed between us. A day or so later, with very little discussion between us, she moved back to Bromley, and in doing so she gave me unspoken permission to pursue Maria, and make her mine.
The Swan was as busy as ever when I arrived, and as usual we were made to wait outside the brewhouse door whilst the coroner remained in consultation with the two London police detectives. Outside, there was much discussion about what this might mean; that perhaps an arrest was imminent. Clara Churcher was there, waiting, with a young man who looked so much like Tom Churcher that he was likely to be the brother. Of Tom Churcher himself, there was no sign.
We were called in, and to begin proceedings Clara Churcher was called. She said that she wished to make some corrections in her former evidence as to her knowledge of the deceased having any particular attachment. With that, she cast a glance nervously about the room, fixed her eyes upon me for a second, and then returned her attention to the coroner. This, of course, gave me due warning as to what she was about to say.
‘I recall the deceased once told me that she had a letter from Mr Richard Field, inviting her to lodge at his house when she took up her position at the school upon whose board he was a governor. She showed me the letter; I thought his tone was very free. I told her I th
ought it was wrong, that she had better remain at home and assist her mother. I asked her if Mr Field was a married man.’
The coroner looked up, at this, and glanced about the room. His eyes, like the witnesses, alighted on me. I wondered with some degree of foreboding if I was about to be recalled.
‘Go on, Miss Churcher,’ he said.
‘Harriet – sorry, sir, the deceased – she said with a jolly laugh that this Richard Field might well try to seduce her, but that he was as old as her father.’
That sounded very much like Harriet, to me. Those assembled in the room whispered and shuffled, and I felt eyes upon me. Clara was thanked, and dismissed, and as she walked past me her cheeks were flushed. She did not look at me.
I understood. At the last inquest, the tide had turned against her brother, and this was her defence of him: to implicate another, as best she could, within the boundaries of truth. She had not lied; but the testimony did not add anything to the evidence; it was hearsay as much as the rest of it. They had no proof – of anything – and at some point the coroner was going to have to make exactly that point to his poor beleaguered jury.
I should report the rest of the day’s proceedings, but after Clara’s declaration a kind of despondency came over me. I listened, and watched, and it seemed to me that a succession of witnesses were called forth to state that they had now remembered that they had seen Harriet in the company of Tom Churcher on the night of her death. A woman named Elliott had stated that her husband had told her that Churcher had been in the chapel in the afternoon, and that Harriet had also been there, on some spurious errand. Elliott himself, for some reason, was not called to confirm this story. In any case, it was scarcely relevant. I wondered if the coroner, or perhaps more significantly the jury, were at all convinced by what was, surely, mere speculation. Why should they only recall now, more than two years after the night in question, something so apparently memorable, given the circumstances? Two possibilities presented themselves: either they had, at the time, been so convinced that Tom Churcher could not possibly be the guilty party that they had utterly discounted the significance of his being in Harriet’s company during the afternoon, and more importantly that night; or someone had convinced them to speak up against Tom Churcher now, perhaps at the very least to encourage the inquest to a final conclusion.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 28
