‘Madam,’ I said, ‘I am most terribly sorry for your loss. I have come to offer you my deepest condolences, and to send you the love and warmest thoughts of my wife, Maria.’
Harriet’s sister stood behind me, unspeaking. For a horrible moment we both stood there awkwardly, waiting for some reaction from the older lady and getting none. Eventually, having said what I had come to say, and thinking of no other words of comfort, I half turned to go.
‘Thank you,’ the lady said. I was quite shocked by her voice, having expected it to be weakened or querulous, but instead finding it firm, almost confident. ‘Very kind of you, Mr Field, to come all this way.’
I bowed my head to her. ‘I came as soon as I could,’ I said.
‘Please sit,’ she said, and I glanced at Mary Ann, who with an impatient nod indicated the second chair. Once I had taken my seat she crossed the room to a bed at the other side of it and took up some needlework. The room was dark and airless for the shutters being fastened, and despite the lamp at her elbow I could not help but fear for her eyesight.
‘Harriet spoke of you often,’ Mrs Monckton said. ‘I do know she missed you terribly when she left London.’
Her words dipped into a pit of emotion in my chest that I had struggled to suppress since that moment I had broken down in front of Maria. I felt tears start in my eyes and I swallowed, trying desperately to retain control. This lady did not need to see me make a fool of myself.
‘As we missed her,’ I said. ‘She was a very dear friend to my wife, and to myself. Maria would be here herself, but she has been rather unwell since the birth of our child.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Harriet told us. She often read out loud your letters to her.’
I hesitated at her words, suspecting a deeper meaning, but her eyes remained calmly focused on mine. Surely Harriet would have read only some of the letters, I reasoned. Some of them she would have kept to herself.
‘I understand the laying to rest has been rather delayed by the inquest,’ I said.
‘We are hopeful that the coroner will release her to us very soon,’ she said, ‘and the chapel has indicated that they will pay, so that’s one worry quite taken care of.’
‘I thank God for it,’ I said.
‘It’ll be in the parish church, of course,’ Mary Ann said from the corner of the room.
Mrs Monckton leaned forward. ‘She doesn’t hold with any of this Calvinist nonsense,’ she muttered. ‘And who can blame her? Look where it got Harriet.’
‘You think – the chapel?’
‘What do you think, Mr Field?’
‘Of what?’ I asked, confused.
‘Of Mr Verrall, of course,’ she said, fixing me with a pair of dark eyes that reminded me disconcertingly of Harriet.
I thought for a moment, and then decided to answer her honestly.
‘I can’t admit that I like the man very much,’ I said.
‘Ha.’
‘We don’t like him either,’ Mary Ann said. ‘He’s a fool. And a liar.’
‘Careful,’ the older woman said.
‘Well, he is. And you know it.’
‘He serves his own ends,’ Mrs Monckton said, ‘and I don’t believe they are holy ones.’
We sat for a moment in silence, the thought of Verrall as a liar and what that might mean hanging between us like a thundercloud. We did not speak the words but perhaps we were all thinking it: that a man of the cloth who was a liar was perhaps a very dangerous man.
I left them a short while later, promising to remain for the funeral if it were to take place within but a few days, but if it was delayed further I should return home to Maria and perhaps come back for it, if she was well enough for me to leave her untended.
On the path across the fields I noticed a man coming towards me with intent, a man who looked like a labourer crammed into a smart suit, with a tall hat thrust upon his head so hard that his ears bent outwards underneath it. I stood to one side but he blocked my path. I felt my breathing quicken, in readiness for some sort of assault.
‘Mr Richard Field?’ he asked.
‘Yes, I am he,’ I said.
‘My name is Sergeant King of the Bromley police force, sir. I am tasked to give you this.’
He handed over a piece of paper. I broke the seal and read it. A letter from Charles Carttar, Esq, Her Majesty’s Coroner for Kent, requesting that I attend to give my testimony at the inquest on the body of Harriet Monckton, to be held in the board room at the Bromley Union Workhouse at twelve noon on Wednesday the 15th of November, 1843.
‘Well?’ King asked me, when I folded up the paper once more.
‘Well, what?’
‘You will attend?’
‘Do I have a choice?’ I asked.
‘Not really,’ King answered.
I continued my walk a little uneasily, not sure if he meant to detain me further, but in fact he fell into step beside me and walked a little easier. I realised his entire purpose in crossing the fields to Farwig had been in search of me.
‘Only, I like to ask,’ King said, his tone almost genial, ‘because, if I need to get firm with you, sir, then I like to build up to it. I’m not so good when taken by surprise.’
‘Do people take you by surprise?’ I asked.
‘Sometimes,’ he said. ‘I don’t react so well to it. I’d rather be prepared, like.’
‘Can you not expect … that people will behave badly, and then be pleasantly surprised when they don’t?’
‘I suppose I should,’ he said, ‘but, when I expect people to behave badly, then they tend to be alarmed, and then sometimes they behave badly after all, when perhaps they mightn’t have otherwise. So really I find it easier to ask.’
‘Indeed,’ I said. I rather liked him for his honesty.
‘If it’s all the same to you, sir,’ he said, ‘I should very much like to ask you a few questions. Perhaps this afternoon, if you would be so kind.’
‘Very well,’ I said. ‘I’m staying at the White Hart.’
We parted company in the Market Place. I stopped at the bakehouse to purchase a bun, and then continued to the inn. I stood in the yard with my letter to Maria in my coat pocket, pressed against my heart, and then I returned to my room to write her another instead: I would likely be delayed some days yet. My darling Maria, I longed for her dreadfully already. I missed her sweet face and soft, gentle voice, even if her wifely attentiveness to my comfort had been somewhat diluted since the arrival of our firstborn. And in a strange sort of way I missed the squalling child almost as much.
Frances Williams
Thirty girls present at this morning’s register. Betsy Burgess has ringworm; I sent her home.
From the window of the schoolroom I saw Mrs Verrall and Ruth Verrall crossing the yard; a minute later I put Lizzie Finch in charge and I went into the corridor. Mr Campling had taken them into his office. I had no desire to be caught listening at the door, tempting as it was, so instead I went to the boys’ room. Will Judd had been left in charge.
‘Where is Mr Campling?’ I asked of him.
The entire schoolroom stared at me.
‘He’s been called out to a visitor, miss.’
I went to his office, then, and rapped sharply.
‘What is it?’ I heard him call.
Mrs Verrall was seated, Ruth standing behind her.
‘My apologies, sir,’ I said.
‘Well?’
I had planned to ask him about the ringworm but, now I was here, I thought that a sorry excuse for interrupting. ‘Just that—’ I began, and stopped, and flushed, and started again. ‘I wished to speak to you about the girls’ reading. I shall examine them tomorrow.’
‘Surely that can wait?’ he said. ‘As you can see, I have visitors.’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said.
For a moment or two I stood rooted to the very spot, staring at them. They must think me some kind of mad-woman, I thought. And Sarah Verrall smiled at me, and nodded, an
d somehow that released me from the spell.
As I closed the door behind me I heard the words, ‘… such an excellent woman, you are lucky indeed …’ and, although Mrs Verrall must surely have been talking about me, I could scarce believe that she could be so very kind.
Mrs Verrall had visited the school before, of course, many times. Every year the Verralls hosted a Chapel Fair on their fields, at which a marquee was raised and the ladies of the town were tasked with baking fruit cakes and supplying cordials and various prizes. And then there was the Christmas Half Day, when the children of all the schools were provided with small gifts, and carols sung, and games played in the afternoon. Mrs Verrall was the orchestrator of these events, meeting with the directors of all the schools in the town, and marshalling a veritable army of ladies to provide the food and drink, raising funds in order that those who otherwise would have had nothing should be provided with a small present and at the very least one decent meal.
Perhaps that was why she was here now, I thought; perhaps it was nothing to do with Harriet. I had panicked; I had thought she had come to complain about my presence here, that I was corrupting the girls instead of bringing them to Christ.
I need to be careful. I will lose my head, and give myself away.
Richard Field
At two o’clock precisely there was a knock at my door. I had been lying on the bed and had half drifted off to sleep, so I was rather disorientated when I opened the door and found the large figure of Sergeant King blocking the space at the top of the stairs.
‘I thought it best to come to your room,’ he said, as I stood aside to let him in, ‘unless of course you’d rather I spoke to you in the public bar, or perhaps at the police station.’
‘Not at all,’ I said.
‘That’s what I thought.’
He stood for a moment with his hat in his hands until I came to my senses and offered him the single chair. He placed his hat upon the table and sat, his large behind filling the seat fully and making it look rather precarious. I perched on the edge of the bed, there being nowhere else.
‘You and Miss Monckton were friends, I understand,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Well, she was good friends with my wife, Maria.’
Was that misleading? Of course it was. I had known Harriet for many months before I met Maria. But it was not an untruth: Harriet had indeed been Maria’s friend first. They had met at the school, where Maria taught the younger girls, before Harriet introduced her to me and suggested she might join us – her own lodgings being of a poorer standard.
He made a note of this and hesitated before looking up. ‘And she lived at your address, in London, I understand?’
‘She lodged with me for a little over a year,’ I said. ‘She was employed at a school nearby. I have several lodgers,’ I said, and then realising that this was untrue, I added, ‘That is, I did have several lodgers. Since my marriage and the birth of my first child, there is very little room now for paying guests.’
I had said me. That she had lodged with me, not us. From that, were he an intelligent man, he might have deduced that Harriet had lived with me before Maria had, but it seemed that fortune was on my side, for he did not press the point further.
‘Why did she leave Hackney?’
I bit at the inside of my cheek, thinking of the best way to answer him. ‘She was finding the school particularly challenging,’ I said. ‘The board were not supportive, and she felt that her efforts were not appreciated. She was homesick, as well. I think she missed her mother.’
All of those reasons were probably true. ‘While she lived at your property, were you aware of her having any connection to any particular man?’
I thought about this. ‘No,’ I said, staring at him.
‘None at all?’
I found that my cheeks had grown hot. ‘She – er – she often spoke of her cousin, George, with whom she had grown up. A sailor, I believe. But he was her cousin. And there was another man, a draper. Samuel Phipps was his name. He was friendly with her for a while – they met at my house, at a party I held for some friends. But surely …’
‘Sir?’
‘I mean – I feel certain that she had not seen him for some time, certainly not after she left for Bromley. It was an acquaintance, nothing more than that.’
‘That’s all I asked, sir. Any connections she had.’
‘I can’t think of anyone else.’
‘This Mr Phipps, sir – do you happen to have an address for him?’
The sergeant left shortly afterwards, leaving me to kick myself for trying to be too helpful. Poor Phipps – he would no doubt get a visit from some police officer now, if not Sergeant King then some other fellow. But when put under pressure it is so much easier to answer than not to answer; the truth flows so much easier than a lie. Or, perhaps, to put it another way, one truth is easier to give up when what one really wants to do is conceal another truth, a darker one.
Phipps had been my sacrifice; he should be called to give account, and would be found entirely innocent, because he was: and his purpose had been to throw the heat away from me.
Wednesday, 15th November, 1843
Thomas Churcher
I saw the sergeant the next morning. He came to the shop and gave me a piece of paper and told me I was called to appear at the inquest. I was to present myself at the workhouse at noon sharp.
He spoke to my father, although I was present. He asked if I was going to give him any trouble. When I heard the word ‘inquest’ there started a roaring in my ears and I barely heard the rest.
They were talking, the sergeant and my father, and my father looked grave and was talking in a low voice and I said, ‘I am a man of honour,’ and both of them stopped and looked at me. I don’t know why I said that. The words came from inside me without my asking.
They both stopped and looked at me.
‘You can see he’s not himself,’ my father said
‘Nonetheless, he has to attend.’
The sergeant left.
My father looked at me, standing there with an awl in my hand. He looked down at my hand and then up to my face and he said, ‘Don’t stand there with your mouth open, lad, get on with it.’
I went back to work but my brain was boiling. I wanted to see Mr Verrall. There was nobody else I could talk to, who would understand how I felt.
After about half an hour my hand slipped and the awl skewed through a piece of leather and tore it and my father shouted at me and I hung up my apron and left to go home. I was not ready to work. I felt unwell in my head still. I needed time.
‘You make sure you are there at noon,’ I heard him shout behind me, ‘or you’ll have me to answer to.’ I did not reply.
I walked around for a bit but it felt like everyone was staring at me, so I went to the Manse, but he was not there. Mrs Verrall told me he was at the chapel. I did not want to go to the chapel, of all places, but I couldn’t avoid it for ever. And I needed to see the reverend.
The gate was unlocked. I put my hand on it and it opened with a creak and I thought of that night and how Harriet had put her hand there, just there, to open the gate, and how it had made a noise. Perhaps someone had heard it, and thought that it was late for a visitor to the chapel. I had opened and closed and locked and unlocked that gate so many times, I must have heard that creak every time, and yet now it sounded loud and strange and discordant, like a note played on the organ out of tune.
Mr Verrall was in the vestry, looking through the drawers in the desk. He started when he saw me.
‘Tom! Come in, do.’
‘Reverend.’
He smiled but he looked odd, pale and shiny, his beard darker against his skin. His hair curled damp on his cheek. ‘You are alone?’ he asked me. I nodded. ‘Shut the door, then.’
He sat at his desk and motioned me to take the other chair. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘I am called to the inquest, at noon.’
‘Yes, I know,�
� he said.
‘How do you know?’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘I am called too, today, although I’ve been following the progress of the inquest closely. I know what’s going on, what the coroner is trying to prove. He means to harm the church, I am sure of it.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Because they think us radicals. You’ve heard me speak of it often enough. They are lazy, the High Church, full of their rituals and fat on their practices. They have no desire to see the Spirit move here in the town! They have no compulsion to bring people to God. They read the Gospel and think themselves holy; they ignore the inconvenient parts, the parts that insist we should be servants and not masters.’
He stopped talking and looked to the door. Nobody was there. The chapel was quiet, and cold.
‘I cannot pray,’ I said.
The reverend looked surprised. ‘What?’
‘It feels like nobody is listening. It feels like God has left me. There is a space in front of me, where once I felt something. Him. His presence. You know.’
‘He is still there, Tom, he has not left you.’
‘I cannot feel.’
There was a long moment when I could not speak. He sat and watched me. I thought he might try to pray over me, or lay hands on me, or suggest a passage for me to read from Scripture, but he sat and watched. And then when finally I composed myself enough to breathe, I wiped my face and my eyes hard and he said, ‘You need to master yourself.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You did it before; you must do the same thing now. You must take a deep breath and hold it in, and keep it all in your head. You can’t pray? Don’t try to. Wait until this sorry mess is over with, and then God will be there waiting for you when you are ready.’
‘Yes,’ I said again. He was right. I took a deep breath.
‘You answer their questions and you stay calm and you get through it.’
‘But what if they ask me? What do I say?’
‘Exactly what we agreed. You saw her on Monday night, at Miss Williams’s house. You did not see her after that. You heard she was missing. You went to look. You took Sweeting with you, and he found her. It’s really very simple.’
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 14