Frances Williams
A sharp drop in attendance today, owing to the fair coming to Shifnal. Miss Barclay suggested that tomorrow we should call a half-day holiday, as the fair begins properly, but Mr Jarrow has refused. Agnes Smart was sent home today with a rash upon her face. The measles is still rife in the town. I trust the parents will have the good sense to not send their offspring to the school if there is a chance of infection.
I have written to the Shifnal school board this morning to ask for funds to purchase a wall chart showing the countries of the world. I should like to add Geography to the lessons, as Jane Harris has an older brother who has gone to sea, and Lottie Adamson asks me all the time where is America, and where is Ireland, and are they the same thing? I have shown her in the atlas I keep behind my desk, but a wall chart would be so much easier to use.
The letter was waiting for me, lying on the table in the kitchen. Emily was already home, heating soup for us to have for our supper. The letter bore a Bromley postmark, and if she had noticed this she did not remark upon it.
I greeted her and asked after her day. She is engaged as a governess for a wealthy family in Telford, but they have recently begun an extended visit to family in Scotland, and they are unlikely to return for some weeks. She was asked to go with them, but she refused, and it seems that they value her skills enough to keep her on, paying her a fee to retain her connection to them whilst they are away. She is not expecting to sit idle, however, but to write. She is a fine poet, and wishes to compile a collection of her work for publication. She told me that she had written a great deal, although most of it would necessarily be discarded.
I opened the letter, then, to see that the inquest is to be resumed into Harriet’s death. I am only surprised that it has taken them so long. What is more troubling is that the coroner requests my attendance on Wednesday next and that I should repeat my testimony, given that a considerable amount of time has elapsed, to refresh the minds of the jury and to enable them to reach a final verdict.
‘What is it?’ Emily asked, seeing my face.
‘The coroner has called me to Bromley, on Wednesday,’ I said. ‘They are resuming the inquest.’
She knows, of course, about Harriet. I told her early in our friendship, for in those days the loss of Harriet was something I felt acutely, like a rent in the fabric of my soul. She listened, as a friend might, and at some point in the listening and the telling of the story I told her that I loved Harriet, and she told me that she understood. I recalled the look on her face, and how the hand which had been holding mine moved to my cheek, and stroked it, and how I shivered. Was that the first time we kissed? Perhaps it was.
She looked at me, and immediately said, ‘We can inform Mr Jarrow that I will stand as your replacement.’
‘But you are to go to Northumberland,’ I protested. She had been hoping to visit her sister, who is expecting her first child.
‘This is more important,’ she said. ‘My sister will have the baby whether I am present or no.’
‘But I don’t wish to go.’
She saw my face, and came to me to kiss me. ‘It will be over with soon enough,’ she said, ‘and finally then you will be free of it.’
‘I cannot go back there again, Emily. I swear that town will break me.’
She made me look into her cool blue eyes, so wise and comforting. What ill could possibly befall me in Bromley, when I had Emily here awaiting my return?
‘All will be well,’ she said. ‘And besides, how should it look if you failed to attend?’
‘They all think me guilty anyway.’
‘I am very sure they do not. From what you told me, that town is full of men who had good reason to harm her. You should be the very least suspected!’
‘And yet, they all thought me guilty. The school—’
‘Did you not think that the mothers kept their daughters away not because of you, but for another reason? That they did not want them walking to school and back when there was a murderer abroad? Or perhaps they suspected Mr Campling, or one of the older boys?’
I smiled at her. ‘You’re very kind, but you weren’t there. You did not see them, gathered like rooks in the Market Place, gossiping and murmuring.’
‘Nevertheless,’ she said, ‘you must attend. Shall I be obliged to escort you there myself?’
I thought of Emily in that place, and how they should stare, and comment, and I couldn’t bear it. ‘I’ll go,’ I said. ‘As long as you’re here, waiting for me, I’ll go.’
‘That’s better,’ she said, and took the letter from my hands, and kissed me.
Reverend George Verrall
‘You would do well to keep out of it,’ Sarah said.
We were having luncheon together, seated at opposite ends of the dining table, with Ruth in the middle, and Jessie had just brought through dishes of chops with boiled potatoes and cabbage. Everything doused in a watery gravy. I looked at it with dismay.
‘We ask you dear Father to bless this food that has been brought to us through your bountiful mercy,’ I said. ‘Amen.’
‘Amen,’ said Ruth.
‘Amen,’ said Sarah. ‘The Lord Himself knows what trouble it caused us last time.’
‘I shall involve myself only as far as my Heavenly Father requires me so to do,’ I said. This was an expression I used often; it seemed to work.
Sarah ate her food with a sour expression on her face. We had not dined together for some time, I realised; often I was late back for luncheon and had to be satisfied with a cold plate, served to me without ceremony. Sarah and Ruth ate at one o’clock promptly whether I was there or not. This insistence on her part to eat without me felt like rudeness; I had many times wished to admonish her for it, or to at least request that she would wait if I were to be, say, a half-hour delayed.
‘You may do as you please,’ she said to me then, a small, tight smile upon her face. ‘I shall eat at the same time every day, for routines are needed in a household such as this, no matter how busy its occupants.’
She often spoke as if Ruth were not there, I noticed.
It wasn’t as if we had the boys any more to keep us to the routines; all three of them were now away at school. If this made Sarah sad, she did not say. Ruth, I knew, missed them terribly. But Sarah kept her occupied in the household and sent her on errands, and Ruth, perhaps fearful of being sent away, her usefulness expired, said not a word against it.
At least she ate heartily, clearing her plate before either of us had so much as tackled a chop. I turned to her.
‘And how do you do, Ruth? What news from the parish?’
‘But little,’ she said. ‘Annie Storer has had her baby, a little boy.’
‘Thanks be to God! And mother and child are both well?’
‘I believe so, yes. Richard Humphrey asked me to call upon his father. He has been unwell in the colder weather; I said I would take him some broth.’
Sarah made some noise and I looked at her sharply. I met her eyes and looked away.
‘You are fond of the Humphreys, Ruth?’
‘They have not had an easy time of it,’ she said. But she was looking at Sarah, not at me. ‘Since Mrs Humphrey was taken to Glory, the family has found it very difficult to manage …’ Her voice trailed off.
I returned to the chop.
‘We are all of us quite changed,’ Sarah said, ‘by the events that surround us.’
It was such an odd thing to say. I stopped eating again and regarded her, but having uttered those words she had set herself to the task of eating, and did not apparently wish to speak further.
Wednesday, 4th February, 1846
Reverend George Verrall
The door knocker rapped after supper. Sarah and I were in the drawing room. Ruth had already retired. We were sitting in quiet companionship, with no need for conversation; I was reading from a book of sermons, Sarah was at her mending.
Mrs Burton answered, and told me Thomas Parry was asking for me.
I rose to my feet. ‘Show him into the study, Mrs Burton, I shall be there presently.’
The study was warm and stuffy, for the fire had been lit earlier in the evening, and I considered opening a window. Parry was standing by the bookcase, twisting his hat in his hands.
‘Well,’ I said. ‘Sit down, man.’
He sat, perched on the edge of the hard seat as though not wishing to taint the wood with the unworthiness of his behind.
‘Let us begin with a prayer, shall we? I feel the nature of our discussion is likely to be a serious one, and I wish to make sure that we hold the Lord himself close to our hearts whilst we talk.’
His eyes widened, but then he closed them and bowed his head.
‘Heavenly Father,’ I began, ‘I ask you to bless Thomas, and keep him close to you; and honour him for his work in Your Name to keep your people safe from the enemies of the Cross; we ask you now, Holy Spirit, to descend upon us and guide our discussion, for the sake of Your Son Jesus Christ, in whose name we pray, amen.’
‘Amen,’ he said, and coughed.
I spread my hands upon the desk in front of me. ‘What news, Mr Parry?’
‘Well, sir. The coroner called us all in, and we held a meeting upstairs at the Swan.’
I knew this. If he meant to tell me every detail, we should be here hours. ‘And?’
‘Four hours, we was in there. Hodges was talking and talking, and then Barrett pipes up, and you’d think he was an expert on it to hear him go on … not meaning any disrespect, sir, but I found it tiresome.’
‘And what of the business of the meeting?’
‘The coroner, he apologised for its going on so long, and said he had been very busy, but that that was not an excuse. He said he had been hoping all along for the police investigation to reveal the person that had done the deed, but that the police had been working on other matters, and there had been very little progress.’
very little progress
He paused and turned his hat a full circle in his hands, and I thought to myself that perhaps he was the wrong person to ask. But he was a true friend of the chapel, at least, and I trusted him to keep my questioning of him private.
‘And what of his intentions, Mr Parry? Did he indicate what he required of the jury?’
‘He said they would go over the evidence, to refresh our minds of the case, given that so much time has passed since our last meeting, and that he should call the witnesses once more to give their testimony.’
‘What, all over again?’
‘He said it was important that we did not miss any detail. Barrett said that it was a waste of our time, that we had heard it all before, and what purpose should be served by beginning all over again. And the coroner said that we had sworn an oath of diligence, and what man among us could recite the testimonies of the witnesses word for word, and that if any man could not do that, then it was his duty to ensure that we were all familiar with the circumstances, given that it was a difficult case the like of which he had never seen.’
the man does not know what he is doing
‘It will be weeks, then, no doubt about it,’ I said. ‘And presumably the matter will be open to public scrutiny?’
‘I don’t know that, sir, only I think it should be. He said the first sitting will be next Wednesday, the eleventh. A week today. He asked us all to make sure we were free to attend.’
‘At the Swan?’
‘I believe so, sir, yes, sir.’
‘And what of Mr Churcher?’
‘Mr Churcher?’
‘Thomas. Was he mentioned?’
he’s squirming in his seat
that means he was
‘I couldn’t say, sir, not that I recall.’
‘There was no mention of the police’s suspicions in that regard?’
‘I’m not sure I understand you, sir,’ Parry said, flustered.
‘It doesn’t matter, Mr Parry. It’s just that I am aware that our own Mr Churcher was – and is – the man suspected by the police. I don’t think it does any harm to say it, just amongst ourselves. We believe, of course, that he is innocent of such a charge – but I feel it can only help us to know which way the coroner’s mind is inclined …’
‘Oh, I see. Yes.’
‘So his name was not mentioned?’
‘Not that I noticed, sir, no, not, as you said, sir, in that regard.’ He coughed, and then continued, ‘I think his name was mentioned in respect of his being called as a witness, sir. That, only.’
‘Ah. And the other witnesses, were they as before? Nobody else is to be called, whom we have not yet seen?’
‘I couldn’t say, sir.’
‘Very well, Mr Parry. Thank you for your diligence. You are a true friend to Jesus.’
‘I hope I am, sir.’
‘You understand, of course, that we must keep this di scussion to ourselves, for the time being?’
‘I do, sir, yes, sir.’
I showed Parry out myself. The lane was dark, a wind blowing from the west. I offered him the loan of a lantern but he said he knew the lane as well as he knew his own face, and that he should find his way well enough.
The drawing room was empty. I considered writing letters in my study, but I felt tired and my mind was turning over the conversation with Parry, and I knew I should not concentrate. Thinking of the inquest made me think of Harriet, and the thoughts of her made me restless. I went upstairs to find Sarah already in bed, her back turned to the door.
‘Are you awake?’ I asked, loudly enough to ensure she was.
She ignored me, but when I got into bed beside her and blew out the candle she acquiesced to me in the end. I went at it hard, thinking of Harriet, and I made her gasp with the force of my body. Her hands were fists, resting on my shoulders. I spent in her quickly, feeling little but disappointment.
I hoped, as I always do, for a surge of inspiration or for the warmth of the Spirit, but there was only exhaustion, and Sarah turning her back on me once more.
Thomas Churcher
‘I just do not understand,’ I said to my father, ‘why they want to see me again.’
‘Because it’s been years, Tom,’ he said. ‘The coroner wants the jury to have the case fresh in their minds.’
‘Then the man should read it all aloud to them,’ I said. ‘The man who wrote it all down. What did he write it down for, if not to refresh all their minds?’
Father shrugged. ‘It is what it is. You have to attend, and make the best of it.’
Emma was not pleased. I had work to do, she said; did the coroner think we were all sitting idle? I hung my head and said it was nothing to do with me.
She stood watching me for a moment and then she came to me and put her arms around me, and I felt the hardness of her belly pressing into me. She pushed her hand through my hair and cupped my cheek and pulled me to her mouth so that she could kiss me. I had forgotten the sweetness of her kisses, when she chose to bestow them.
‘Don’t fret, Tom,’ she said, after a while. ‘It will all be over with soon enough.’
‘But what shall I say?’ I said. ‘I have forgotten it all. I have put it to the back of my mind, as you told me to, and now I can scarce remember what I did or said and why.’
She knitted her brows and held my hands in hers. ‘It’ll all come right,’ she said. ‘When you’re in there, you just say what you can remember and tell them if you’ve forgotten. They can’t expect you to have kept it all fresh in your mind, can they?’
I thought about it at supper and later that night, in bed with Emma beside me, snoring because now she had to lie on her back, so that some nights I lay there for hours listening to her, and sometimes I went down the stairs and slept in the chair by the stove. But those nights I made sure to wake early and pretend that I had only just got up.
I can’t have kept it all fresh in my mind, she said. But that was not true. Some of it was fresh, but not the right parts. The day after the last inquest I prom
ised myself I would not think of that night again. But of Harriet herself I thought more and more. I remembered her face, turned to mine, half of it in shadow, and her smiling at me and looking at me in that way she did just before she kissed me. I remembered her pressing her hand to my heart and feeling the beat of it, and taking my hand, and pressing it to her breast, so that I should feel hers.
I remember her solitude. That, even when she was with other people – with me – she always seemed to be alone. That she seemed to desire me, as I did her, but that she had strength and virtue and honour, no matter what they said about her at the inquest.
Sometimes I look at Emma and her swelling belly and I think of what Harriet might have looked like, had she lived. I think of her child that never had a chance at life and my heart hurts.
I should have liked her baby to have been mine. Then things might have been very different. But the truth of it was, she gave me so much of herself, but not enough for me to hold on to. Not enough for me to keep.
Wednesday, 11th February, 1846
Thomas Churcher
The two London detectives came to the workshop when my father was absent. I don’t know if they did that on purpose, so that I should not be embarrassed, but for me it was not convenient, and I told them so.
The older one – a Mr Pearce – looked about him in a dramatic fashion, as if to point out that there were no customers present and so I was clearly not occupied in serving anybody.
‘My father is out on business,’ I said.
‘It’s not your father we’ve come to see,’ he said.
‘You’ll have to come back,’ I said. ‘Maybe this afternoon.’
The other policeman, Mr Meadows, who was round in the face and the body, held up his hands. ‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘you know you’re due at the inquest this afternoon, and it will only take a moment or two. Just a few questions. You know why we’re here, don’t you?’
They would not leave, and I stood there with my head down while they interrogated me. They asked me endless questions, and I simply repeated the same words over and over: that I had already said everything I had to say at the first inquest.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 23