‘Perhaps you should send to Camberwell,’ Sarah had said to me, over dinner the previous evening, when I told her of my fears. She meant that I should ask the Reverend Boyce to come to preach on my behalf; he was soon to take up a ministry at York, but for the time being he was travelling between parishes to preach. ‘Or ask one of the deacons to do it in your stead.’
‘I don’t think they should like that very much,’ I said glumly. ‘No: I shall have to do it. The Lord will guide me in the right words to say.’
She looked at the pear she had sliced into quarters on her plate and said, to it, rather than to me, ‘Let us hope so, for all our sakes.’
I feared I was never very far away from Sarah’s disapproval; this had occurred to me some years ago and once the thought had been formed I could never quite get rid of it. Over the years of our marriage it had solidified into pure fact, and now it had become a daily pastime to discover what it was I would get so terribly wrong before the sun set once again.
Alas, even the casual indulgence in the dressing room did not inspire me to produce a sermon worthy of Harriet. The congregation stared at me as I spoke from the pulpit, as if daring me to tell the truth.
‘Our dear sister was a woman of rare kindness,’ I said, beginning with truth, and then veering slightly away from it. ‘She was generous in nature, spiritual and holy, and a fine example to set to us all. And yet, even the best amongst us are called unto the Lord at a time of his choosing. We cannot know the day or hour, nor the reason why our loved ones are taken from us. We must, as the Lord himself tells us to do, trust and obey, and know that our sister has been translated into Glory, and that one day we ourselves will follow her, and see her once again.’
Where there had been silence, I heard a noise – perhaps a cough, or a snort. I looked over the faces, expecting to see a reflection of the same emotion I felt myself, and yet they were all set to stone.
‘And now, my brothers and sisters, our next hymn: “I Know That My Redeemer Liveth”.’
There was a pause as I stepped down from the pulpit. At the organ Tom Churcher lifted his hands to begin, and the music filled the chapel. I felt relief that the sermon was over, allowing my voice to rise to the familiar words of the hymn. The congregation were not in such fine voice; if I had been at all uncertain before, the weak and faltering sounds of them singing confirmed it.
At the closing of the hymn I felt anger rising in my breast, and as I stepped forward once again to offer them a blessing I had to choke it down. There was a pause for a moment of silent prayer, and eventually Tom began to play a gentle melody that usually sounded peaceful and yet joyous; today it sounded mournful.
I rose from my seat and made my way to the chapel door, ready to shake hands and wish them well as they departed. But, to my dismay, many of them chose to exit via the rear door – the one nearest to the privy – which had been opened for them by Beezley. From my position I could see them, scurrying for the back of the chapel.
Joseph Milstead took pity on me and came to converse with me while the rest of them trooped from the passage at the side of the chapel and made their way to the gate.
‘It’s a worrying time for everyone,’ he said.
‘Indeed,’ I replied. ‘How very disappointing it is. At a time when we are so sorely tested …’
‘People work things out in their own way,’ he said mysteriously.
‘But the Lord provides us with guidance, and support, through the Word …’
‘If there is one who speaks the Word, Reverend.’
what are you getting at, man?
spit it out
if you have something to say then say it
At length Sweeting came to stand beside me. I noticed within the gloom that a few of the men had stayed behind: Churchers, father and son; Beezley; Brigley; John Joyce.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘We would speak with you. Perhaps in the vestry?’
I followed them back inside, wordless, feeling my blood pounding through my veins. Perhaps this was how the Lord himself felt, I thought, being led to Calgary. Or perhaps how he felt in Gethsemane, knowing that he was about to be betrayed. I had recently preached a sermon on it. Had they been listening?
They gathered in the vestry and chairs were brought in from the hall. Tom sat at the back with his head down. I felt that whatever had been discussed between them had passed over his head; he was here by default rather than by his own will.
I took a deal of trouble choosing my seat and moved it to the head of the room, in front of the desk I used for chapel business, wishing by this action to indicate that this was still my place. I smoothed my trousers and my gown before I sat, and lifted my chin.
‘Well, brothers? What’s this about?’
‘You know well enough,’ said Sweeting. His colour was high; I fancied with little provocation he might actually explode.
‘I’m afraid I do not.’
John Joyce spoke then. ‘You saw for yourself, Reverend. Attendance today was perhaps half what it usually is for a Sabbath. The town is in uproar over it. The gossips—’
‘Do we listen to gossip?’ I demanded. ‘Have we ever listened to gossip?’
‘No,’ James Churcher said, quietly, ‘but we do address the cause of it. If thine eye offends thee, cut it out and throw it away.’
he is talking about me
they wish to cut me out and discard me
I smiled, inside praying for the Lord’s peace and for wisdom to deal with this in the most effective way. ‘The cause of the gossip does not lie within these walls,’ I said.
‘Does it not?’ Sweeting said.
I got to my feet as the Holy Fire of the Spirit rose in my chest, a rush of pure, righteous anger. ‘Have you forgotten who you are? You are God’s children! You are responsible for bringing Light and Life to this community, and yet you are fractured and broken because of one woman’s suicide! Pull yourselves together!’
They were all staring at me in shock, except for Tom. He had not moved.
‘Are we to let Harriet’s death destroy everything we have built here? Are we to let Satan use her for such ill? Gentlemen, we are being tested, can you not see it? And that testing is showing that we are wanting, brothers, we are very much wanting.’
Sweeting breathed in sharply through his nose.
‘We have a choice,’ I said, more calmly. ‘We can watch and pray, thank God for Harriet Monckton’s life, mourn her passing and carry on as we have before, ministering to the godless and the destitute, following our Lord’s example and bringing hope to the hopeless; or we can give up, fall apart and turn our faces away from Him who loves us. What is it to be?’
There was a pause.
‘He’s right,’ said James Churcher.
Beezley had been watching me closely. ‘This meeting,’ he said, ‘was called by us because we are deacons of this church and we can all see the danger in what has transpired.’
‘You think I am blind to that danger? The Enemies of the Cross are all around us, brother. They are all waiting for us to make a mistake, to fracture, to show ourselves as halfhearted. We cannot let them win. We should stand together, trust in the Lord with all our hearts, and come together instead of drifting apart.’
There was silence for a moment. I sat down again.
‘If any of you wish to ask me anything,’ I said, quite calmly, ‘then this is the time to do it. I will answer you.’
They shifted in their seats, none of them speaking for a moment.
go on
I dare you
ask it
‘If it were not for the circumstances,’ Beezley said, ‘it would not be so very bad. I mean, her death is one thing, but the manner of it, and more importantly her condition – that’s the problem.’
‘I’m fully aware of that,’ I said.
‘The question is, Reverend,’ Beezley went on, ‘were you aware of it before she passed into Glory?’
I hesitated befo
re answering. ‘I was aware.’
Churcher and Beezley exchanged a glance between them.
Joyce said, ‘And were you the cause of it? The surgeon was not certain of the exact timing of the … initiating event, after all.’
The anger rose within me once again but I swallowed it back down.
how dare you how dare you think that of me?
‘I was not the cause of it, no.’
There was a collective exhaling of breath in the room. They were relieved! But to my very great surprise they believed me, to a man. I felt the anger subside and in its place was a sensation of warmth towards them all. They wanted to trust me; I was their shepherd, and I was steering them through the very darkest of valleys. All they wanted was to know that I was still guiding them in the right direction.
Sweeting then ruined it for us all. ‘If it’s not him,’ he said, ‘then it must be Tom.’
Everyone in the room turned to look at Tom Churcher, at the back. He looked up for the first time, his expression one of horror at being thus exposed.
James Churcher said, ‘Sweeting. This isn’t—’
‘Well, Tom?’ Joyce asked. ‘The reverend has answered; now you must, too.’
‘Answer what?’ he asked, desperate.
he hasn’t been listening
leave the boy alone
‘You walked out with Harriet often,’ he said. ‘You were sweet on her even before she went away, were you not? Perhaps you picked up where you left off, as soon as the girl came home from London. For all we know, you may even have been the reason she returned to Bromley.’
‘No,’ Tom answered. His initial shock at being the centre of attention in the room had given way to anger at being cornered. ‘I liked her, is all.’
‘Answer truthfully, boy,’ Sweeting said. ‘Did you lie with her?’
‘Sweeting,’ James said, his voice low. ‘Please.’
‘He knows what I mean, James, he’s not a child.’
‘I did not!’ Tom said. Anger had driven him to his feet, made fists of his hands. He took a pace towards Sweeting, who shrank in his seat. ‘I would not!’
‘Tom,’ I said, ‘that’s enough. Sit down.’
At that very moment there was a knock at the vestry door. I turned towards it, wondering who else could possibly wish to join in with this ghastly spectacle. Beezley got to his feet and opened the door, and behind it, hat held in his hands, was Sergeant Samuel King of the Bromley police.
I got up and faced him. ‘Samuel,’ I said. ‘What brings you to our door?’
‘I asked him,’ Beezley said. ‘Take a seat, Mr King. I’ll fetch another.’
Everyone shuffled round to make room, except for Tom, who had sunk once again with his head clutched in his hands, his ears covered.
Sweeting could no longer contain himself. ‘I never thought it. Never thought such a thing.’
he hates to think he has been fooled by a girl
‘And I gave her mother three shillings,’ he said. He was in such a fearsome rage that he could barely get the words through his bared teeth.
‘Calm down, man,’ I said. ‘You also promised to raise a subscription to pay for the funeral. I notice you made no mention of that in the service today.’
Sweeting’s eyes bulged. ‘Under the circumstances—’ he began.
‘The circumstances are that a girl is dead,’ I said.
They were all staring at me. I should perhaps have bitten my tongue, but I was so far down that road that I could no longer turn back. ‘A girl has lost her life here in this place, in the Lord’s house, at her own hand or by the hand of another. A young woman whom we all knew, and called a member of our congregation. Yes, she was a sinner, but so are we all, every one of us. If any of you think that you are more worthy than she, then I should ask you kindly to depart this place and never return. Do I make myself clear?’
Nobody spoke.
that was a mistake, George
were you not thinking?
were they not listening?
I addressed the sergeant. ‘We have nothing to hide. This terrible event has befallen us, and we have no choice but to deal with it as best we can. But you should know, sir, that what has happened here has come as a terrible shock to us all.’
‘I understand,’ King said.
how I loathe that man
slow-witted
insensitive
the basest of base men he is
‘Then you must forgive us, sir,’ I said, ‘if you find we take exception to the intrusive nature of the inquest. It feels quite as if we are all put on trial for our lives.’
‘No need to be quite so dramatic, Reverend. We just want to find out the truth, is all.’
‘None of us here has any responsibility in her death, and that’s the truth of it. If you and the coroner wish to look for another’s hand at work in this tragedy, then you will need to look elsewhere.’
King stared at me. ‘I look for evidence, sir. Nothing besides that.’
We all sat in silence for a moment.
‘Our work here in Bromley is important,’ I said. ‘It is the Lord’s work. We preach the Word of God to the ungodly; we lift up the downtrodden, we tend to the sick, and we share what we have with the poor. Unlike other churches, we turn nobody away who is in need.’
Joyce shot me a look that might have been warning. Samuel King had left our congregation just a few months after my own arrival, in order to renew his membership of the parish church. Fool that he was. I could do nothing about his stupidity, but to pander to his own High Church allegiances was beyond me.
King got to his feet. ‘I appreciate your taking the time to reassure me, Reverend,’ he said. ‘Nevertheless, sir, I have a job to do, and I will on instruction of Her Majesty’s coroner continue to do it.’
The rest of them stirred and got to their feet, as if taking his cue. The meeting, such as it had been, was apparently at an end. Despite his apparent hurry to leave and get back to his work, King dawdled in the vestry talking to Beezley. Beezley stayed to lock the doors and the sergeant walked out with me. I had nothing further to say to him, but instead he addressed me.
‘The boy seems very distressed,’ he said.
‘Tom Churcher? Yes, indeed he is. He has taken it very badly.’
‘Because he was the one what found her?’
I paused, and looked around me. James Churcher and his son had gone through the gate and were some fifty yards ahead of us, walking quickly back towards the Market Place. The rest of them had already dispersed to their homes. Behind us, Beezley had gone down the passage to the side of the chapel to check that the back door was securely locked. We were quite alone.
‘Yes, partly. But Sweeting was there at the same time, and his manner, as you have seen, remains very much as it once was. Tom Churcher, on the other hand, has quite fallen apart. Tell me, sergeant, what does that suggest to you?’
His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know what it is you’re getting at,’ he said, and he was lying.
‘His feelings towards Harriet ran very much deeper than anyone quite realised,’ I said. ‘I do believe he thought himself in love with her.’
‘My understanding of the matter was that he is promised to another young lady in the town,’ King said, generously.
‘Emma Milstead, yes. He was promised to her. But he broke it off, and he spent a lot of time with Harriet over the last few weeks. They were regularly to be seen walking across the fields together, as I’m sure you know, if you have asked around the town.’
‘Are you suggesting—?’
‘I’m merely stating a fact, Sergeant. You deal in evidence, you say. Then you should look to those who spent the most time with her, and who are the most affected by her death.’
Richard Field
Maria was unwell after our meal, and did not come down at all today. The child, at least – perhaps out of pity for me – was less fractious and even at times smiled as I dandled him on my knee during the en
dless hours of Annie’s half-day.
I found he was inclined to wail as soon as I left him alone, and so he accompanied me about the house, lying on the rug in front of the fireplace in the drawing room while I read the paper aloud to him, or balanced upon my hip whilst I made tea in the kitchen, all the time cursing the poor state of affairs that has led us to have only one servant, and no sign of another.
Such time alone allowed me to think of Harriet. I had told Maria, through my shameful display of emotion, of Verrall’s letter: she had read it herself. If, indeed, there had been some element of warning cloaked in those sentences, she gave no indication that she had noticed it. Her initial reaction seemed to be shock, rather than grief, for she was detached and quiet. She held me dutifully as I sobbed, and wiped my face with her handkerchief, then helped me to the chair. ‘We will get through this,’ she said. ‘We will survive it, as we shall survive any crisis.’
Her words were those of a loving wife, but her tone was distant.
After the tears, I felt somewhat better, as though the knowledge of it had bedded in. It was a terrible thing, but it had happened, and now here we were, Maria, myself, and our son: and we would continue. Later that evening, though, I heard Maria sobbing in our bedroom. I went to her, but the door was locked. ‘Maria?’ I called.
The sobbing stopped. I heard her sigh, and breathe, and a quavering voice came back. ‘I’m quite all right, Richard. I just need to be alone for a while.’
I left her, and the sounds began again, breaking my heart. We had both loved Harriet, each in our own way. We would both miss her.
The child slept on the rug and for a little while I was able to lie on the settee and indulge in my own thoughts in the quiet of the afternoon. Harriet and I had made love where the babe now lay, on that very rug. Not once, but several times. And here, too, upon this seat: my trousers dropped to the floor, her across my lap, her legs either side of mine, riding me like a horse. She was a vigorous and an attentive lover, in the end. When she first came to me she was a virgin and yet I did not press my advantage: she came to me, rather; curiously, wishing to know.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 11