The Murder of Harriet Monckton

by Elizabeth Haynes

  ‘I should like to return the favour,’ I said to her, ‘if the situation ever presents itself.’

  Her brows furrowed; she did not understand. Never mind. At that moment we were interrupted by a shout from the door.

  ‘Mr Field is called!’

  I returned to the room, and walked straight past the crowd to the front, to the chair in front of the coroner. As before, I was handed a Bible and swore an oath as directed, and then I was permitted to sit.

  ‘Mr Field, your wife has also been summoned to attend, but I understand that she is currently indisposed. Is that the case?’

  ‘Yes, sir. I have a letter from her physician.’ I took the letter from my jacket pocket and approached the table with it, passing it to the coroner. I thought for a moment he might read it aloud, but he merely perused it and passed it to his assistant.

  Maria hoped – indeed, we both did – that the doctor’s insistence in writing that she could not attend without a conveyance being provided for her would result in her summons being revoked. Surely, she had said to me, her attendance at the inquest was not necessary? What could she say, that I could not say on her behalf? The coroner, however, seemed keen to hear her testimony, and told me that he would arrange for a conveyance, as neither he nor anyone else would wish to place the life of a witness in jeopardy. With that arranged, he expected to see my wife present at the next meeting of the jury. My heart sank a little, but there was no time to consider it further, for the questions then began in earnest.

  ‘Please tell the jury how you came to know the deceased, Mr Field.’

  I told them that Harriet was intimate friends with my wife, and that she had last stayed with us in August of 1843.

  ‘And I understand you were frequently in correspondence with the deceased?’

  ‘I was, and my wife also. Sometimes we wrote together, and she replied to us jointly.’

  ‘Can you tell us, please, of the very last letter you received from the deceased?’

  I took a deep breath and removed another letter from my pocket, and passed it to the coroner. ‘This was posted, according to the mark, on the 6th of November, 1843, and it was in answer to one I had written to her on the 4th.’

  ‘Can you recall the contents of your letter, Mr Field?’

  ‘Mr Edwards, of Trinity Square, Tower Hill – a mutual acquaintance of ours – had obtained for her a situation at Arundel, and in my letter I informed her that he was requesting that she settle about going down as soon as possible.’

  ‘And how did you come to learn of the death of Miss Monckton?’

  ‘By letter again, sir, this time from Mr Verrall.’

  The coroner conferred with his assistant. I thought for a moment he should ask to see that letter, as well, or ask me about Harriet’s demeanour in London in August, or about her baby. He did none of those things.

  Moments later, the coroner said, ‘Thank you, Mr Field, that will be all. We should like to see you and your wife at the next meeting, please.’

  I was released. I heard the crowd begin the muttering that punctuated the space between each witness, and I walked past them all, feeling their eyes upon me and no longer caring. I left the brewhouse and, believing it unlikely that any other witness would have some testimony that required my further examination, I walked down to the Market Place and purchased a pie and an apple. From there I strolled back to the White Hart, and sat by the fireplace with my pie and a glass of their own beer. I thought it odd how all of the witnesses had given testimonies that were at once the same as, and yet in marked ways different from, those they had given previously. It also seemed we all felt the need to add some comment, or some jibe, whether directed at the coroner or some other person involved in the case. Everyone was looking for someone to blame; not just for Harriet’s death, but for the delay in reaching a verdict, which meant all of our lives were in effect frozen, leaves suspended in an icy pond.

  I retired to my room after an hour or perhaps more, having had just enough ale to know that I should leave the bar before I started calling for spirits. I lay, clothed, on my bed for quite some time, thinking of all that had transpired today, and, all thoughts fresh and ordered in my mind, I rose and sat at the table for a while, composing a letter to my beloved Maria.

  Frances Williams

  After my testimony I returned to the Bell, and rested for a while on the bed, but I found it impossible to settle. I sent for tea, and, thus restored, I went out for a walk and some fresh air. My feet took me back to the Swan, and to its brewhouse at the corner of Beckenham Lane. The door was propped open to allow air into the room, and the crowd had much reduced in number since my own testimony that afternoon. I was surprised to see that the session was still in progress, and took it as a sign that the coroner had every intention of bringing matters to a swift but thorough conclusion.

  I went inside and made my way to a position where I could see the person currently testifying, but by then I had already recognised the deep, melodious tones of the Reverend George Verrall. Yet again he was stating that he had suggested searching the Bishop’s Park, the ponds, for he felt certain that Harriet might have chosen to do herself some harm. The price he had to pay for this dogged insistence as to Harriet’s state of mind, when everyone else who knew her had testified that she was not the sort of person who would consider self-destruction, was that it had become very clear that he alone, of all of us, had known the truth about her condition. I thought him very clever, for that. For who could argue with him? Indeed one might believe that he knew of her pregnancy because it was he who had impregnated her; but it might equally be that he knew of it because she saw him as a trustworthy confidant and had shared her worries with him. Who could question him for that? He would answer that his stance could be seen as a foolish one, for he made himself appear, sometimes, quite guilty, and why should he do that, if he were not entirely innocent?

  It took a moment to realise that Mary Ann Monckton was standing beside me. She nudged me and murmured, ‘He’s been going for a full twenty minutes.’

  ‘On what subject?’ I asked, my voice low.

  ‘Calvinist nonsense,’ said Jane Humphrey, who had attended chapel when she had taken a liking to Joe Milstead, but Clara told me she had not bothered since.

  Verrall was good at that, I thought. He made you think he was clever, whilst all the time he was dancing around you, a trickster in a black silk gown.

  ‘What can you tell me of this Mr Carter, who was mentioned earlier this afternoon, Mr Verrall?’

  My ears pricked up at this; for it was my own testimony that had brought that name to light. Really, I had mentioned Carter only in passing. I should instead have mentioned Richard Field, and I had not. I was not quite sure why; for I had seen enough of his letters in Harriet’s hands. I had seen declarations of affection from him, reminiscences of their time in London, strong assurances of how much they both missed her. I had not said anything critical of their relationship to Harriet. But at some point during the autumn she had stopped sharing his letters with me. What was it in those later letters, that Harriet had not wanted me to see? At the time, still wary of my own true self, I had thought perhaps that she had written unkindly about me to her friends, making sport at my nature, and he had replied in kind. But now, I thought that perhaps she had confided in Richard as well as Verrall; and perhaps her reasons for doing so were very different.

  If that was the case, though, Richard Field had lied under oath before the inquest, and that painted him in a very different light.

  ‘I knew a person named Carter,’ Verrall was saying. ‘He lived in Deptford, and had been to preach for us once or twice.’

  ‘Do you recollect a tea party at which the deceased and Mr Carter were both present?’

  ‘I have held a number of tea parties, and I believe I have, on occasion, had cause to reprove some persons as to their conduct. Mr Carter was certainly present at one of these parties, but whether he was one of those I reproved, I cannot recollect
.’

  ‘Whether you reproved him for it or not, did Mr Carter pay close attention to the deceased at that tea party?’

  There was a hesitation, then. I noticed that he did not like questions regarding matters of his personal judgement. ‘Not that I recall,’ he said.

  The coroner made a note and moved on. ‘Did you ever say, Mr Verrall, that after the jury had given their decision you would be prepared to give yours?’

  ‘Yes, I stated so publicly, and my reason was this. The Thursday after the deceased died was a lecture night, and on that night I took occasion to say that I would endeavour to improve the event by preaching a sermon on the following Sunday. When I found that the jury had not arrived at a conclusion, I at once saw the impropriety of my entering upon the subject, and I forbore to do so. I gave public notice that, as soon as the jury delivered their verdict, I would give mine, and by that I meant that I would improve the event.’

  Jane Humphrey sighed and pulled a face, and whispered to me, ‘Why can’t he just say yes and let us all get on with it? He likes the sound of his own voice too much.’

  The coroner continued, ‘Have you not expressed a desire that this inquiry should be closed, that you might leave Bromley?’

  A murmuring went through the crowd at this.

  ‘Yes, I have been very anxious on that subject. I did not wish the jury to come to a verdict without sufficient evidence, but I had hoped that they would have returned an open verdict. I am of the opinion that the deceased took the draught intending to terminate her unfortunate condition; and it is not quite clear to me that you have gone far enough, in not having examined the chemists and chemists’ wives in this town. It was not impossible that the deceased might have applied for some medicine to procure abortion, and have been served with prussic acid instead.’

  The murmurs grew louder. It was difficult to tell whether the crowd liked the fact that Verrall was strongly against the coroner’s line of questioning; he seemed, in any case, to be enjoying himself. The sight of it sickened me.

  The coroner said, ‘I have here a number of letters, addressed to both myself and members of the jury.’

  The assistant got to his feet and took a sheaf of papers to Verrall, who glanced through them and passed them immediately back to the assistant.

  ‘Are these letters written by you, Mr Verrall?’

  ‘They are in my hand, yes.’

  ‘You wrote them?’

  After a moment, he answered, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you also write to Mr Ilott, the surgeon, regarding the case?’

  ‘I did so, yes. I wished to enquire as to his previous experi ences with poisons, and their effects. I received an adequate reply.’

  The coroner thanked Verrall and dismissed him. Whatever those letters contained, we were not to hear of it.

  Mr Ilott was then called, and asked simply whether he entertained the same opinion now as he had formerly expressed. He replied, ‘I do, most undoubtedly,’ and added that he had the results of his analysis to hand, which should be sufficient to satisfy any chemist.

  With that, the coroner checked his pocket watch, thanked the jury for their close attention and adjourned, stating that they would meet again in two days’ time, in the hope that further important witnesses would then be able to attend. The jury got to their feet and stretched; the rest of us turned to go. I saw Verrall once again approach the table and address the coroner; the look of annoyance on the latter’s face was clear to see. But Verrall spoke with him only a moment, and then turned his attention to the jury, shaking hands and smiling, although they all looked weary to a man.

  I walked back to the Market Place with Jane Humphrey, who spoke the whole way of Harriet and the horror that had befallen her, and how desperate she must have been. I had heard this opinion before, and I disliked it, for it reminded me that I had thought myself such a very good friend of hers and yet she had found me not trustworthy enough to be drawn into her confidence. Why would she talk to Verrall, of all people, instead of to me? Even after all this time, the pinch of it upon my conscience was sore.

  ‘You believe Verrall, then?’ I asked her. ‘That she took the draught herself?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she answered. ‘I mean, I can’t imagine how it happened. Perhaps she took her own life, perhaps someone helped her. All I’m saying is, to find yourself in that condition – and her such a pious girl … she must have been absolutely terrified of it. I’ve been wondering about that situation she had, in Arundel.’

  ‘What of it?’ I asked.

  ‘Whether it was true. I thought perhaps she was going somewhere, to have the baby, and here we would all be thinking her away at a school.’

  That thought had crossed my mind, too, but the situation had been arranged for her by Mr Edwards, and Mr Field, and surely they would not go along with such a ruse on her behalf? In fact it was more likely that she had obtained the situation and only then, afterwards, realised that she was with child. And Jane was right: how desperate, then, must she have been? I thought of Tom Churcher, who had thrown aside his sweetheart to pay his attentions to Harriet instead, and I wondered at the origins of their association. It had happened quite quickly. I thought back to that summer, so much of it spent with her crying over Richard and Maria, and then, quite suddenly, by autumn Tom Churcher was calling for her and walking her home and accompanying her to chapel. By then, judging by the surgeon’s testimony, she must already have been pregnant; possibly already aware of it, or at least feeling that something was not quite right.

  ‘Who do you think it was?’ Jane said then, nudging me. ‘I don’t mean who killed her. Who do you think got her in the family way?’

  ‘I couldn’t say,’ I replied.

  ‘I wondered whether she was forced,’ said Jane. ‘Terrible thing, but it happens. When it’s someone like that – someone gentle, and good; makes you wonder, don’t it?’

  A little way ahead of us, Tom Churcher was walking towards the Market Place with Emma. She had her arm through his, gripping him tightly, and his head was down.

  I thought of Harriet all evening, as I ate my supper, as I read a novel, as I prepared for bed. I wrote a letter to Emily, entreating her to manage without me for a little while longer, as the inquest was to continue on Friday, and I could not return to Shropshire until it was over, lest I should be recalled. It seemed unlikely that I should be, but the important witness who might attend in two days’ time could be Maria Field and my curiosity burned for a glimpse of her, this woman who was more to Richard Field than Harriet had been. I wanted to see her. I wanted to hear her speak.

  Harriet. I had thought, privately, that the father of her child must be Richard, for she had clearly loved him, and had left London only when his affection for Maria had appeared to grow stronger than his feelings for my friend. But, in that case, why not confront Richard with it? Why not ask for his help?

  Perhaps she had, and he had refused her. What would she have done, then? Turn to Verrall, to ask for his advice? Look for someone else to marry?

  And there it was.

  Poor Tom.

  Friday, 13th February, 1846

  Thomas Churcher

  In the morning, Mr Verrall called at the workshop and spoke to Father. I was in the back, working on a pair of silk slippers for Miss Holgate, and I could not hear what was said between them, but a moment later I was called to the shop.

  ‘The reverend wants to ask you something, Tom,’ my father said.

  I had not spoken to him for a good while. I had given up the music at the chapel before my wedding, claiming to be too busy to do it. Alfred Elliott had taken responsibility for it, at first just as a temporary measure, and then I simply didn’t go back. At the time I worried and fretted and lost sleep over it, thinking that the reverend would come to me and say that I was shirking, and accuse me of backsliding, following the Devil’s path, and would demand that I pray with him.

  But time passed and he did not come; and Elliott did not come either,
and Emma and I missed a week at chapel, to visit her sister in Nottinghamshire, and then we missed another, because Emma was ill, and then the following week we went to the parish church to hear Miss Charlotte Birch, the renowned soprano, and after that we simply did not go back. It was before Christmas. We worshipped at the parish church when we could; sometimes Emma did not feel like it, or she had too much to do at home, or else she demanded that I spend the day working on the house, with her supervising so I did not make a mess. We were not heathens; we were just occupied.

  I had worried about it, and then as time passed I worried less and less. But now Mr Verrall was there, and I was there, and the fear of it leapt to my throat like a fish in a stream.

  ‘Tom,’ he said.

  I wanted to tell him that I was Mr Churcher, that I was an adult, with a wife, and a child nearly born, but I held my tongue.

  The reverend glanced towards my father – who continued to worship at the chapel, although he was no longer deacon, and yet had never once commented on my dwindling attendance – and he excused himself, and went to the workshop and out the back, into the store room. That served to increase my nausea.

  ‘Yes?’ I asked.

  ‘I should like you to do something for me,’ he said. He was holding his hat in his hands, and I wondered if he had removed his hat in here before, or if he had kept it on his head. I did not remember.

  If he was expecting me to agree without his explaining what he wanted, he was to be thwarted. I waited for him to continue, and that look appeared upon his face, the one that made me think of an adult disappointed in a disobedient child.

  ‘The inquest resumes today,’ he said. ‘I find that I am unable to attend, due to another more pressing engagement.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘I wondered if you would be so kind as to attend,’ he said, ‘on behalf of the chapel.’