I heard him saying, like you, but he did not say that. I heard the words in my head.
‘Tom, the Lord has chosen you to take on responsibility for this task, just as He chose Matthew and Thomas and Peter. He chose you because you are a good man, and you love the Lord and you love his church and his people. The fate of this place, and of our congregation, lies in your hands. You can save us, Tom, from the Enemies of the Cross! You can save us, if you just keep your wits about you, and don’t let Satan fool you.’
He shook my hand as I left, and clapped my arm tightly. I felt differently, then. I felt braver. I knew what I had to do. I walked across the fields again, all the way to Farwig Lane, but when I got there I realised Harriet would no longer be there, in her mother’s house, for the surgeon had cut her up. I had wanted to go and see her but I was too late for that.
I walked back, and by then it was nearly time to go to the workhouse.
Reverend George Verrall
As I was called as a witness, I was not permitted to listen in on the proceedings. I found this infuriating, and spoke to the high constable about it.
‘I have been present at every meeting,’ I said. ‘Every single one. What difference does it make if I hear what is said today, when I have heard everything up to this point?’
‘It’s the procedure,’ Joyce said. His chin thrust out at me, daring me to strike. ‘Nothing to do with me.’
procedure be damned
damn you all
‘I am here to defend my chapel, my congregation.’
He sighed. ‘What do you think is going on in there? Don’t go getting ahead of yourself, Reverend. It’ll all come out right in the end.’
he thinks I am a troublesome child
He left me. I had forgotten that there were others, also waiting. Tom Churcher, looking as if he might vomit at any moment. Richard Field had been called, I saw. And with him a younger man, who I soon found out was Samuel Phipps, a draper and former acquaintance of Harriet’s. She had never mentioned him to me.
Besides them, the surgeon, James Ilott, who was no doubt to give evidence about the smelling salts bottle that the sergeant had recovered from the night soil in the privy, something in which I had taken a keen interest. If prussic acid was a constituent of smelling salts, of any brand or variety, then surely it should remain a possibility that Harriet had taken her own life. The stain of a suicide was less permanent a mark upon the chapel than the stain of murder, and this was why I had written once again to the coroner, this time anonymously, with a view to nudging the doubt of it further into his own mind.
never mind that she died in the chapel
and there was no bottle
it is what they call a means to an end
Richard Field
I had never been inside a workhouse before, and I knew not quite what to expect. It was smaller than I thought, a long, narrow building which sat right on the road to London. I had passed it many times and had never given it so much as a glance. Moments after my arrival Samuel Phipps had entered. On the road up from the White Hart I had heard steps behind me, and guessed that whoever it was might be going to the same place as I. Not wishing to converse with anyone, I had deliberately not turned to acknowledge them, and now I saw it was Phipps and I was rather glad I had not.
We were directed upstairs by a woman in a grey flannel gown with an apron and a bonnet that was astonishingly clean and white. I had expected the building to be noisy, and smelly, but, whatever activity was taking place elsewhere, it was being undertaken silently.
The first floor extended into a long corridor with doors leading off either side; against one bare wall two long wooden benches had been placed, presumably for our use. A young man was sitting there already, smartly dressed, his legs crossed at the knee, a leather case placed at his feet. He gave us the barest of smiles, and nodded, but did not further acknowledge our presence, and we sat down next to him to wait. Further along the bench were two women, who I took to be a mother and a daughter; they were whispering together, and did not appear to even notice our arrival.
Phipps wanted to talk when we first arrived; I told him I knew as much as he did. He wanted to know who had mentioned his name, and I apologetically had to tell him it was I, in response to a direct question; he forgave me quickly, however, and for that I was grateful.
Shortly after that another young man came up the stairs to our right and sat on one of the other chairs; he was a handsome fellow, with a dark mop of curly hair and dark eyes. He looked in a state of considerable distress, his knee jerking rhythmically and his hands constantly fiddling with his hat or running through his hair or over his face. Verrall came up the stairs, then, and the young man stilled himself instantly.
The first man was called in; I did not catch the name but I heard the word ‘surgeon’ and I guessed he must have been the one to examine her.
Phipps muttered to me, ‘We shall be here all day! I should have brought something to read.’
But in fact the surgeon was not long, perhaps ten minutes. He left the room from the door at the far end of the corridor, presumably to discourage us from engaging him in conversation. I saw then that there was another set of stairs at the other end of the corridor, and thus we could give our testimonies and leave without meeting the eyes of those who were left waiting.
Moments later the high constable was called, and after he left the door opened and the usher – or whatever he was – said, ‘Mr Richard Field?’
Thomas Churcher
I was made to wait in the corridor outside the board room. Someone had put benches in a row, making the corridor narrow and small. I sat in silence and tried to keep my breathing calm, and my face empty of expression, just as I had done on Tuesday. It was difficult; at the back of my head a voice said, you cannot do this, and another voice reminded me of the way I had felt afterwards, how hard it was and how my head felt like it would explode with the pressure of keeping myself calm.
The surgeon went first and he was in the room for a time, and Mr Verrall stood by the door and tried to hear what was going on inside, and made us all be silent in case he could hear. I could not hear anything. The surgeon was a quiet man. I liked him, better than his father, whom I had thought very stern. He had been kind to us when my mother was ill, and charged us for one visit when by the end he had made three. And she died, but he had not been able to do anything to help her, even though he tried.
The surgeon left by the door at the end of the corridor; we did not speak to him. Then Mr Joyce went in, and then two men who had been talking together but I did not know either of them; they were not from Bromley. A young man and an older man. I notice people’s shoes, because I make them. I stared at their shoes and tried to guess their occupations. The younger man had poor shoes, resoled, simply made with the stitching wide and the leather marked, but he had a good suit, although it was plain; so perhaps he was a draper, or a tailor, or an apprentice; for he looked too young to have styled it himself. And the older man, dressed in a pale tweed jacket, his shoes were good; well made, with a cutwork detail and the stitching invisible. The leather was plain and they had been resoled perhaps twice; not very expensive, but well-made. His profession was a mystery, but he seemed as though he might have been artistic. They were both from London. I could tell.
Richard Field
The room was large, and stuffy, and full of people. Directly in front of me, under the high windows, sat the jury: two rows of men, slouched and looking bored. To the left, half of the room was given over to the audience, contained behind a rope strung across the room, attached to the back of a chair at either wall. Seats had been provided for the smartest of them, whilst at the very back a general rabble was busy gossiping and chattering.
The usher gave me a Bible and very quickly got me to swear, and at that point the coroner spoke, in a voice loud enough to bring the room to an immediate silence.
‘Please tell the court your name, address, and occupation.’
�
��My name is Richard Field,’ I said, ‘of Fieldgate Street, London. I am employed as a manufacturer of varnishes.’
‘And you were acquainted with the deceased?’
‘Indeed. We were good friends.’
Now the matter was under way I felt rather better; it felt more like a business meeting, face to face, than a schoolroom.
I stood up straighter.
‘Please tell the court when you last saw the deceased alive.’
‘It was some time in the month of August last, at my own house in London.’
‘And when did you last hear from her?’
‘On Tuesday – that is, the 7th of November – a letter was delivered by the postman, addressed to my wife, from the deceased.’
‘You recognised the handwriting?’
‘Yes. And Maria showed it to me. To have reached me on the Tuesday it must have been posted on Monday the 6th of November, in Bromley. It bears the Bromley postmark.’
There was a murmur from the crowd behind me. I was struck then with a sense of us being on a sort of stage, acting our parts, being judged by the good people of Bromley town as well as by the gentlemen – using the term very loosely – of the jury. It took me out of myself to think of it thus, as a performance, and it gave me a jolt of confidence.
I took the letter from my pocket and approached the table. The usher moved to intercept me, took the letter from me and passed it to the coroner with a look that suggested I had broken a rule. I returned to the single chair, although I did not sit down. The coroner read through the letter in silence and then passed it to his colleague, sitting to his right. The sallow-faced man read it through and passed it back to the coroner, who proceeded to read aloud:
My dear Maria,
I received yours on Saturday and was a little surprised not expecting to hear from you so soon. I am however much obliged by your kindness. I showed it to Mr Verrall and he said it was a very nice note. I cannot come to Town this week as I am attending to Miss Williams’s school, she being very ill herself, but on Wednesday next I shall hope to see you – and the dear baby – once more. I am rather unsettled and hope you will excuse this short note. I shall hope to see you if I am spared – my dear Maria, I often remember your words: ‘All things work together for good’. I trust this will be, but I must say adieu. My mother and sister desire their kind respects to Mr Field and thyself.
Ever yours most affectionately,
Harriet
P.S. A kiss for baby – I long to see him. I have a great deal to tell you when I see you. Goodbye.
The crowd at the back of the room could barely contain themselves, and the resulting noise caused the coroner to bang upon the table with the flat of his hand. I heard words passing between them like spared and if I am spared and what must she have wished to say and Verrall.
‘Please, quiet! Else I shall have the room cleared!’
Reluctantly, the noise subsided. All things work together for good, I thought. She used to write letters like that to me, before she brought Maria into our lives but afterwards, too. Only very recently had the tone of them changed. I still had those letters, of course; although I would not be sharing them with the court.
‘Mr Field,’ the coroner continued, ‘to what was the deceased referring, when she said she would see your wife on Wednesday next?’
‘I expected her at my house on Wednesday last. I know that she had obtained a situation at Arundel, at which she was much pleased. Her visit to Town was preparatory to her going to Arundel.’
Here the coroner turned to his assistant and murmured something. A piece of paper was produced, which the coroner examined, then returned.
‘You may have learned, Mr Field, that the deceased was found by the surgeon to be around five to six months pregnant. Were you aware of her pregnancy?’
‘I was not at all aware, until after her death. I am surprised to hear it.’
‘Did you know of any attachment that she had to any man?’
‘At the time she was staying at my house I believe she was much enamoured of a person by the name of Samuel Phipps whom she met there, but she was told that he was engaged to another lady.’
A further murmured discussion took place at this; the sallow man made a note.
‘Can you tell us, Mr Field, how you came to hear about the death of the deceased?’
‘I heard of it by letter, sir: I received word from the Reverend Mr Verrall, minister of the chapel at Bromley.’
Again, a note was made. I wondered at the careful notation of my words, which surely had very little bearing on the case. My feet were beginning to protest at so long standing in one spot, and I wished now that I had sat down from the start; if I were to sit, now, it would look like weakness.
‘You mentioned a Mr Phipps – were there any others to whom the deceased appeared to form any sort of attachment, whilst she was in London?’
‘She had frequently met at my house several gentlemen students of Hackney College – my wife and I like to host suppers and social gatherings – but I never heard of her being intimate or attached to either of them.’
‘Do you visit Bromley frequently, Mr Field?’
‘Not recently, sir. I have not been in Bromley before today for some months.’
‘It has been suggested to us that the deceased may have taken her own life. What is your opinion of this suggestion, Mr Field?’
‘I never saw anything in her conduct or manner or disposition to lead me to think she was likely or capable of committing self-destruction.’
Further mutterings between them, papers passed between them across the table. The delay lasted long enough for the rabble at the back to resume their conversations. At last, the coroner said, ‘Thank you, Mr Field, you are excused.’ And to my very great surprise I found myself escorted by the usher to the back of the room. I felt all eyes upon me as I passed, and for some reason – perhaps relief at being thus dismissed – I smiled and nodded to all those who caught my eye, which brought a few muttered well, reallys and did you evers.
I cared not a jot for them. I had escaped, with but one little lie. Only one, in all of those questions. I felt that I had come out of it rather well.
Thomas Churcher
When the older man went in, I stared at the younger man, who did not lift his head lest he should make eye contact with anyone present, although Elizabeth Hopperton, bored with her mother’s conversation, kept trying to pass the time of day with him. Who was he? Who was he to her? Had she walked out with him? Had he known her, as I had known her? I stared and stared at him, his pale hair cut short, and badly, his whiskers pale.
The older man came out of the other door, and nodded to the younger man, who was called inside. Then I was left with Elizabeth Hopperton and her mother, and the reverend.
The younger man came out quickly. Then Mr Taylor came to our door and called for me.
Despite the season, and the single high window that was open, the room was as hot as high summer. There were too many people, there was too much noise, the smell of too many bodies pressed in a confined space and my nerves, ringing like bells.
‘Tom.’ Mr Taylor put his hand on my elbow and indicated that I should take a seat in the single chair, my back to the crowd. I took a breath and another, and I swallowed, and closed off the panic as best I could.
‘Can you please tell us your name, your address, and your occupation?’
I stared at him. He knew my name, for he had called me, and my occupation was known to almost everyone in the room. But he waited for me to reply nonetheless. I said, ‘My name is Thomas Blackstone Churcher, I live in the Market Place, and I am a shoemaker.’
The man sitting by the side of the coroner was making notes on a large sheet of paper. I fancied he was writing everything down, for his script was swift. He barely paused, and the dipping of his pen in the ink was a matter of but a moment, before his nib found the paper once again.
‘You knew the deceased?’
‘Yes.’
‘Please tell the jury the circumstances in which you last saw her.’
The jury? The men by the side of the court. I looked at them, glanced down the rows at the faces. All of them staring at me. Some of them I knew, but I drew no comfort from that. Their eyes were like the eyes of the people in the Market Place, watching me and Emma arguing.
I swallowed. ‘I went to Miss Williams’s house on Monday evening, the 6th of November. The deceased was there, staying with Miss Williams; she – Miss Williams – had sent for my sister to go and take supper with her, and I accompanied her there and stayed for supper also.’
‘And you saw the deceased? How did she appear to you?’
I stared. ‘She appeared well, and in good spirits.’
‘You spoke to her, then? What did she say?’
‘She told me that she was going in a few days to take charge of an infant school at Arundel in Sussex, and she was happy to have obtained the situation.’
All of that was true. Tell the truth, Tom, don’t lie, Tom, all of it is true.
‘And can you tell the jury how it is that you know the deceased?’
‘I belong to the chapel. She attends the chapel. I saw her there on Sunday evening, during service.’
‘Now, you went to the chapel on Sunday, but you also went there on Monday, is that the case?’
‘Yes. I went to the chapel on Monday afternoon between four and five o’clock for the purpose of packing up and putting away the music used at the services on Sunday – it is my usual custom.’
‘The gate to the chapel, was it open?’
‘No, sir. I took the keys of the outer gate and chapel with me and I unlocked them. The outer gate in the iron railing in front I unlocked. After passing through the gate I could get to the privy without going down the passage by the side of the chapel by going into the front door of the chapel and passing through it and out the back door of it – the back door is within a few feet of the privy door – the back yard is very narrow. I remained at the chapel a very few minutes.’
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 15