The Murder of Harriet Monckton

by Elizabeth Haynes

  But no, the man is a callous fool, and both Maria and I deserve to be treated better than this.

  I still have no solution to my problem. For the past two weeks I had thought my best chance of salvation seemed to lie with Thomas. And indeed if Thomas would come with me, away from Bromley, we could be married elsewhere; in a strange place, who would know the child not to be his? But my foolish sudden lightening of heart, of hope, has been all too quickly driven away by my conscience. To use him in this way would surely make me no better a person than Richard Field.

  And so I cannot go to Arundel, unless I can delay the position until after the child is born, and can also secure some funds or support to keep me somewhere apart from Bromley until then, when I have had the child, and might yet perhaps find a place for it in a loving household. Perhaps, after that, Thomas could come with me to Arundel and we could begin a courtship afresh, without the eyes of the town upon us, and be legitimately and honestly married.

  If he would have me. If, indeed, he would want me; for he shall know the truth one way or another. I will have to tell him.

  Frances asked me this evening if Thomas’s intentions towards me are honourable ones. I told her that he is honest, and kind, and I like him very much. I believe she thinks I am hesitating because I do not consider him my intellectual equal. If only she knew the truth! He is a better person than I, on every count.

  Oh, how I hate keeping secrets!

  Next week I should leave for Arundel. Whatever decisions I make, I must make them soon. The fear has come upon me once again, of what will happen to me, and to my baby. I shall be cut from society, but that I can bear. I shall lose my friends, but perhaps I can bear that too. I shall be cast out from the chapel, but God does not reside in that place, He resides in the hearts of those who believe, and I do believe God at least will not forsake me. I only hope that I can survive this, somehow, and that there might be happiness on the other side of it.

  Thursday, 2nd November

  Frances is very sick, with a fever and a violent cough, which she believes she caught from Annie Slow, who has never been taught to use a handkerchief.

  I promised to stay with her, although that serves me as well as it does her; I have no desire to stay in Farwig. Mary Ann is vexatious once more. She is not happy with me at home, nor is she happy with me quitting it, for now she says I should help her more with the household chores, and how shall she manage when I have ‘trotted off to Arundel’ and left her with all the work?

  Staying at the Beezleys’ makes it easier to see Thomas.

  I spent an hour with him after prayers at the chapel this evening, in one of our secret places: the narrow strip of grass that lies behind the chapel, close against the fence which borders Cooper’s yard. Nobody goes there at all; in fact, it has become a place for discarded items to be left out of sight. There is a pew there, the end of it broken off; the old gate, rusted to pieces; some broken bricks. We sit on the pew, in the gathering darkness of the evening, quite sheltered, and whisper together, and sometimes he kisses me, and sometimes holds my hand.

  I have resolved that I shall tell him the truth, and ask him, if he still likes me enough, whether he will take me away and look after me, even if he does not want to have me or the child afterwards. And, if he cannot do that, I shall ask if he could please keep my secret, until I am safely away, and after that he can tell anyone, for my reputation will be soiled by Verrall in any case. Every day I think to myself, one more day, with Thomas thinking me good, with Frances loving me as she does, without expectation, and then I shall tell them the truth and throw myself on their mercy.

  In the meantime, though, another hope has presented itself, from a most unexpected source.

  I went to Mason’s Hill with a note for Mr Campling, to tell him that I am to take Miss Williams’s classes for a day or two, until she is recovered, and walked back across the Bishop’s Park to Widmore Lane. It was not a shorter way, but a scenic one, and I was visiting familiar places in the town thinking I should say goodbye to them, for once Frances is better, one way or another, I shall leave Bromley for good. The Bishop’s Park is beautiful, with a fine view into the valley, and a spring, said to have healing properties thanks to St Blaise. Mr Verrall does not believe in the saints, but my sister does, and my mother, and I am open to other people’s beliefs even if he is not.

  The path took me to the far edge of Widmore Lane, and I found myself standing outside the beautiful white house occupied by Mr Verrall. I thought perhaps to try again to throw myself upon his mercy and hope that the Lord, finally, would speak to him and ask him to do the right thing.

  The door was opened by Ruth, Mr Verrall’s sister, and she told me that her brother was not at home, but if I wished to wait for him he should not be long. I wanted to get back to Frances, but my limbs were tired from the long walk back across the park, and my back ached terribly, so I said I would wait.

  She showed me into the drawing room, and asked if I should like to have some tea. I said I could not stay very long, but perhaps she might permit me a glass of water instead, and she left to fetch it.

  The drawing room was not empty. Mrs Verrall was there, at her sewing, beside the window. She looked surprised to see me, but then she smiled and bade me come to sit beside her. She apologised that her husband was not at home, but I assured her I was not expected, and I did not wish to trouble the household with my presence so I would not stay.

  Then Ruth brought me a cup of water, and left again.

  I sat beside Mrs Verrall, and asked after her health, and that of her sons. She said the boys were very well, and then she asked if I should like to talk to her of my troubles, instead of the reverend, as she thought herself a good listener.

  Of all the things! But I found myself sharing them none the less, for what else should I do? I told her I was in trouble, and that I had been wronged by a dear friend, and now my reputation would be torn apart just when I needed it most. I shared none of the details of it. I did not tell her that her husband, while perhaps not the cause of my problems, had certainly done nothing to make them any better. She smiled, and looked at me gently, and patted my arm, and asked if I should like her to pray for me.

  And that simple kindness caused me to weep, where I had been so strong for such a long time.

  She offered me her handkerchief, and took my hand, and to my surprise told me that men were dangerous creatures because of their own stupidity, which leads them into sin; and they do it all without a care for the persons who shall suffer because of it. Her hand gripped mine, and it felt very strong. She said all things come to good in the end, because women look after each other, where men fail to look to anyone but themselves.

  Neither of us had mentioned a name, and yet I had the strangest feeling that she was speaking about the reverend. Perhaps he had told her everything? Why should he not do so? He was bound by a moral obligation to keep my confidence about Richard Field, but as for the rest … if his own conscience was resolved by telling his wife what had happened, then that was his concern. She appeared to have cast no judgement upon me, and for that I was profoundly grateful.

  Then she asked me what help I needed.

  ‘Pray for me,’ I said, for I could not ask her for anything else.

  ‘Do you need money?’ she asked.

  I gazed at her, and her eyes looked calmly back into mine. ‘I cannot ask—’ I began, but she interrupted.

  ‘You have not asked. I am asking you: do you need money?’

  ‘It would help me enormously,’ I said, ‘but the reverend said—’ And I stopped short, because I realised that I had brought him into it, named him, even as a person with whom the details of the matter had been discussed. It felt as though I had torn a spider’s web, and broken a spell.

  Her expression did not change. ‘He will not offer you money willingly,’ she said, ‘but that does not mean I cannot see that you receive some. It may take a few days. And you should, perhaps, keep this discussion between our
selves.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, weeping afresh, ‘thank you. Oh, thank you.’ At last some understanding; a real offer of help! She comforted me, and I leaned against her, and the child inside me danced with joy. I wanted to take her hand and press it to my belly, so she could feel the relief and what it had caused: but in that moment the door opened, and the reverend came in.

  He saw me sitting next to his wife, and saw that she was holding my hand; and I saw his expression, but not hers; he looked enraged by it, but then some look passed between them, and he calmed himself. He asked if I was quite well, and I answered that I had been walking outside and had felt unwell, and had asked for a drink of water, and his sister and his wife had been so very kind, but that I now felt quite recovered and should be on my way.

  He said he would show me out, and I turned to Mrs Verrall and made her a curtsey, and thanked her for her kindness; and in return she offered me a small smile, and wished me a good day.

  At the doorstep, the reverend asked what I thought I was doing.

  I said, ‘I have told you the truth: all I did was accept a glass of water. Your wife, Reverend, is a kind and gentle lady, and I am most grateful to her.’

  I said no more, but left him standing there, no doubt wondering if I had confessed everything!

  Sunday, 5th November

  The service this morning was bright, and cheerful, and I took communion as I did last week. The reverend preached on the Last Supper, again, and his sermon concerned He that eateth and drinketh unworthily, eateth and drinketh damnation to himself. I thought perhaps the message was directed at me, although it could just as well apply to the man himself.

  At the porch he asked me quietly to wait behind, for there was something he wished to say to me in private. I was anxious to get back to Frances, but I stayed, hoping that perhaps Mrs Verrall had spoken to him, and that had prevailed upon him to help me.

  Thomas watched him, and me, dark-eyed: and I saw that he took his time clearing up the music and even helped to pile up the hymn books with Elliott. When the congregation had departed, all aside from the two of them, the reverend led me into the vestry. I glanced behind me and met Thomas’s gaze, and then the reverend closed the door.

  He bade me sit down. I told him I preferred to stand.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, and took off his silk gown, that he liked to wear in the pulpit, and hung it behind the door. My heart beat a little faster, for I thought this might be a prelude to some physical assault, but then he crossed to his desk and sat behind it.

  ‘You and Tom Churcher are very close friends now,’ he remarked.

  ‘What of it?’ I asked. There was no point in denying it; we had been seen walking out by all manner of people, chapel members and townsfolk alike.

  ‘Does he know of your condition?’

  I felt a twist of fear in my stomach, and the child inside me moved. ‘He does not.’

  ‘Do you not think he has a right to know?’

  ‘As you observed, Mr Verrall, we are friends. Nothing more. He is a good man.’

  ‘Am I not also a good man?’ he said, and I did not respond. He knew and understood far more about this than he had any right to, I thought. How I wish I had not shared my burden with him! For I had expected comfort, and help, and instead I have more troubles than I ever had before.

  ‘You mean to use him, Harriet? To press him into marriage, when he does not know that you are far from the virtuous girl you present yourself to be?’

  I gritted my teeth at this, and said nothing other than, ‘The Gospel of Matthew, Chapter Seven, Verse 5: you are familiar with the text, Reverend, I am sure?’

  ‘Impudent girl,’ he said, but he smiled. ‘You believe yourself to be so very clever.’

  ‘On the contrary, sir, I am alone, and afraid, and I have, as you have told me, very few friends. Whenever I throw myself on the mercy of some person who is supposed to be good, my condition appears to worsen still further. You will forgive me if I have grown cynical.’

  He took a long breath in, and exhaled it in a sigh.

  ‘I do not mean to use Tom,’ I said, in response to his earlier question. ‘I mean to be honest with him, when the time is right to do so. I would ask you that you allow me to do that, for his sake as much as for my own. I should like him to be able to decide his opinion of me himself. Perhaps you owe me that courtesy.’

  ‘Perhaps I owe you nothing at all,’ he said.

  If I had nursed any vain hopes that his wife had interceded on my behalf, in that moment I was certain that she had not. As always, I must argue for myself. I said, ‘If you should prefer it that I leave Bromley completely, and leave Thomas Churcher behind, then I will do it, if you will only help me.’

  ‘Money, again?’

  ‘I do need money, but not only that. I need time, to resolve the issue. Perhaps you might also write to the school at Arundel, and ask them to delay my appointment there? I would leave as expected next week, and go somewhere else until the child is born and I can find some loving home where it can be raised in safety, and then journey on to Arundel as planned.’

  He stared at me, as if considering my proposal.

  ‘It is really such a very small thing to ask.’

  ‘And if the school should ask me why?’

  ‘Tell them that I am tending to a sick friend. It is partly the truth: Miss Williams is very poorly. I am to take her lessons tomorrow, and until she is better.’

  ‘It is still a lie,’ he said. ‘And I shall be called upon to lie further, when people ask me if you are gone to Arundel and I know you have gone somewhere else entirely. You would have me tell falsehoods for you, on top of every other sin you have caused me to commit?’

  I looked him in the eye, and answered, ‘Yes.’

  He answered, ‘Well, Harriet, I shall not do that.’

  There was to be no answer, no easy solution. His pride and his stubbornness came before everything else, from my wellbeing and that of my child, to Thomas Churcher and his reputation, which would be dragged down along with my own.

  Monday, 6th November

  I have spent the day at the school again, in Frances’s place.

  She seemed a little better this morning, although all night she was feverish, and I spent much of it pressing a cool cloth to her head, and listening to her breathing coming ragged and gasping. She has been thus all weekend. Her chest is raw with coughing. This morning, when I went home to change my dress, Mary Ann said that she thought Miss Williams not at all unwell, that she was merely pretending, so that I should stay longer with her and not go to Arundel after all. She had a sly smile on her face when she said it, and I longed to slap it off. I told her she should think more charitably of a woman who was decent and kind, and that if Miss Williams needed me to stay, then I would stay as long as possible.

  I have not written to Arundel myself; I am expected there in two days’ time.

  The girls at the school have been very good, and wellbehaved, performing the tasks that Frances set for them admirably. I told the girls that I would report favourably on their behaviour to Miss Williams, who should be pleased to hear it. Amelia Taylor said they wished their teacher a swift recovery, and asked that their good wishes should be sent back to Miss Williams, which I promised to do. The younger children have all written letters to her to wish her well. During their sewing lesson this afternoon we could hear Mr Campling whipping one of the boys; Jenny Taylor said she thought it must be their brother, Albert. I told them they should keep their opinions to themselves, as the boys’ room was none of their concern, and after that they kept very quiet, perhaps fearing that I should call Mr Campling in to see them.

  I walked back from Mason’s Hill by the main road, but as I was passing the Rising Sun I saw Mr Verrall cross the road to meet me. ‘Miss Monckton,’ he said, tipping his hat to me.

  ‘Reverend,’ I said, for I could not very well ignore him.

  ‘I should like to ask you to meet me in the chapel this evenin
g,’ he said, lowering his voice, lest anyone should think his request an inappropriate one.

  ‘To what end?’

  ‘I wish to speak to you, in private.’

  ‘Surely all’s been said,’ I answered.

  His face was white, but there was a sheen of perspiration upon his brow. ‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘It is something that might be advantageous to you.’

  I felt a sudden leap of hope, then, that his wife must have spoken with him at last, and had persuaded him to offer me a small amount of money after all. I could think of no other reason for him to ask to meet me, now, after all that had been said yesterday.

  ‘This evening?’

  ‘At eight, perhaps. There is no meeting in the chapel, but I have pastoral visits to attend to first.’

  I thought about it, and about leaving Frances, who needed my care. ‘Very well,’ I said. ‘Although I cannot stay long.’

  ‘I assure you, it will be worth your while,’ he said, and bared his teeth, again.

  I watched him cross the road to the gate that leads across Abraham Nettlefold’s paddock, and from there to the Bishop’s Park. He was heading for home, then. I continued walking into the Market Place. Thomas was standing in the doorway of his father’s shop, talking to Clara, but looking at me. Clara turned to see who had caught her brother’s eye, and smiled at me. ‘How does Frances?’ she asked.

  ‘A little better, I think,’ I told her. ‘Although her cough troubles her dreadfully.’