‘And others besides,’ I said.
‘Not very many others at all,’ he said.
what are you driving at, man?
‘It could have been any man,’ I said. ‘She could have made it up, for the sensation of it.’
‘Indeed.’ He steepled his fingers, regarding me with a steady gaze.
‘Did she recognise the man?’
‘She did not, but the brother-in-law, apparently, thought it was a man named Wilson. However …’ he consulted his notes once more ‘… the witness enquired of Wilson’s wife the next day, only to be told that Wilson had not been out.’
she saw me
or perhaps she saw Tom Churcher running for me
‘There we are; probably it’s a dispute between them. An opportunity for a score to be settled.’
Rose nodded slowly, looking doubtful. I breathed out heavily, wondering if I needed to remind Rose that I was paying him handsomely for this; he should reserve his opinions for his private moments.
‘Finally there came James Churcher,’ he said.
‘Senior?’
‘No – the son. Tom Churcher’s brother.’
‘What on earth did he have to do with anything?’
‘He deposed that his brother Thomas was at home on the Monday night, ill, and was in bed at nine o’clock …’
that is a lie
‘… and that he has no recollection of having seen Mr Verrall on that day, and that they all have a clear conscience, and can answer any questions.’
‘The coroner asked him if he had seen me?’
‘He did.’
‘You see what I mean, Rose? The man has me at the very head of his list of suspects. Why else should he ask that, of a witness who had no interaction with Harriet before her death, nor any part in the finding of her? To ask whether he had seen me that day – why? What is he getting at?’
‘Calm yourself, man,’ he said, perfectly reasonably.
I sat for a moment, checking myself, allowing the fire to dissipate. Eventually, I said, ‘What else?’
‘That is all,’ he said. ‘They adjourned for dinner. They meet again at four; I assume you wish me to be there?’
‘I shall attend in person,’ I said, determined.
‘George, I must advise …’
‘What? That I should sit back and let the coroner blacken my name?’
‘I am sure he has no such intention.’
‘On the contrary: he seems determined to find my hand in every small detail of the case. The testimonial, for example …’
‘Ah,’ said Rose. ‘I wondered when you would come to that.’
‘They are suggesting that I wrote to the board recommending Harriet for the position at Arundel, and I did not.’
‘Really, George, that is such a trifle. As you said, a small detail. Why should it matter if you did or you did not?’
I pointed my pen at him. ‘Because it is impugning my reputation, Rose. He wishes to prove that I knew Harriet was with child; that is fair enough, for she confided in me, and I counselled her as a true Christian and a shepherd would; but to then suggest that I wrote a letter recommending her – a single woman, with child – for a position as a teacher! It is unthinkable!’
At last Rose seemed to see the truth of it, for the half-smile dropped from his face.
‘Well, perhaps you should make that point,’ he said, after a moment, ‘if it will satisfy your conscience.’
my conscience damn you
it is the truth
I breathed hard, staring at Rose and thinking him a smug bastard and wishing in that moment that I had never thought to employ him. I stared and waited, and after a moment I stood.
‘Will you accompany me?’ I asked.
Frances Williams
Outside the Swan’s brewhouse, I saw Richard Field standing on his own, smoking a pipe. He was causing something of a stir amongst the others waiting, all of them standing in groups and gossiping, occasionally glancing across at him.
Let them gossip, I thought, and approached him.
‘Miss Williams,’ he said. ‘Are you well?’
‘Very well, Mr Field. I am surprised to see you still in Bromley. Unless you are called once more?’
He knocked his pipe out against the wall of the inn, stamping on the embers. ‘I have resolved to attend until the verdict,’ he said.
‘Indeed? And Mrs Field?’
‘Ah. You may have noticed she is near her confinement.’
‘I believe I did notice,’ I replied. ‘My congratulations to you both.’
‘Our second child,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ The first, of course, had been born not long before Harriet’s death. I had heard all about that child, after all.
‘Maria has returned to London,’ he said. ‘But she is just as keen to hear the results of this miserable business. We are hopeful that the police will be able to uncover the guilty party.’
I stood for a moment with him, looking at a group of three young women who were standing close by, heads together. I recognised the tallest of them: Millicent Judds. I had taught her, and Mr Campling her four brothers, all of them difficult to manage. Millie once threw her slate at another girl, and had to be caned.
‘I wish I had your optimism, Mr Field,’ I said.
‘You do not share my opinion?’
‘I fear the police have made up their minds,’ I said.
At that very moment Tom Churcher appeared, with his brother and his father flanking him. The attention of the assembled townspeople turned from myself and Field to them, for they looked purposeful and determined. Tom looked white-faced and wild, as if he was minded to fly at someone’s throat.
The door opened, and the assistant called for the public to be admitted. We filed in.
‘Do you think we shall have a verdict today?’ I asked Richard Field, who had accompanied me to the side of the room.
‘Who knows?’ he replied.
The coroner called for order. Verrall was summoned to repeat his oath. I had not noticed him in the crowd, which caused me to think that, perhaps, he had been inside the room all along, speaking to the coroner in private. I found that thought disturbing.
‘Mr Verrall,’ said the coroner, with a voice that suggested great forbearance.
‘I had wished to clarify a point made at an earlier sitting of the jury,’ he said, looking towards the men seated under the window, and showing them his teeth in an approximation of a smile.
‘Very well,’ the coroner said, looking over the notes upon the table.
‘I have been giving the matter careful thought, and I have no recollection of giving Harriet Monckton a testimonial for the Arundel school.’
The coroner referred to the assistant, who shuffled through the papers and produced a document, which the coroner then read aloud.
‘Bromley, Kent. To the Committee of the Arundel Infant School. Miss Harriet Monckton, who is a candidate for the office of teacher, has been a member of the church under my pastoral care since August 1836 and has conducted herself with great propriety. I beg to recommend her to your confidence as one fully adapted to fill so important a station. Wishing you God speed in your laudable endeavours to train up the little ones to be useful members of society and to share at length as heirs of immortality, I am, yours truly, George Verrall, Pastor of the Independent Church assembling in Bromley Chapel.’ He looked up. ‘This is the testimonial to which you refer?’
‘Indeed,’ said Verrall.
‘This was found by Inspector Meadows in the deceased’s box, and in the deceased’s handwriting, as if she had made a copy of it before posting.’
Verrall appeared not to have heard him. His cheek was pale, the sheen of perspiration visible on his forehead even from my position some distance away. He continued, ‘I have no recollection of having written such a document to the committee of the Arundel school. Although the letter is in my style, and indeed I recall having written a similar letter to the promoter
s of a school at St Albans, where the deceased was formerly engaged.’
There were murmurings in the room, as the assembled audience considered this.
‘Did you send your testimonial directly to the St Albans school, Mr Verrall?’
‘I did.’
I frowned. I had seen the document myself in Harriet’s hand, before she sent it to the school. Why should he lie? Perhaps it was not the proper thing to do, to give a character directly to the person to whom it related. Proper behaviour was certainly something the Reverend George Verrall would be concerned about.
‘How, then, could the deceased have obtained it?’
His eyes widened slightly. He looked trapped.
‘I do not know. Perhaps she requested it to be forwarded on to her, to use again.’
The coroner stared at him for a moment, then asked if he had anything further to add. Verrall did not, and he was dismissed. I thought then Carttar would move to adjourn the proceedings, for he examined his pocket watch and turned to his assistant, but at that moment Tom Churcher stepped forward.
‘Mr Churcher?’ said the coroner. ‘You have something to say?’
‘If I am permitted,’ he said.
‘You are free to speak,’ the coroner said.
For a moment he stood and I fancied he was trembling with some great inner turmoil. Like Verrall, he looked pale, and thinner than I had seen him. For a dreadful moment I thought he was about to confess to it. He had that look about him: a man who had had his life wrenched asunder and wished only to be done with it.
‘I have had a very painful charge made against me, sir,’ he said. His voice was low, and unsteady.
‘By whom?’
‘By Inspector Meadows and Superintendent Pearce. I wish to inform you, sir, and the jury, that I have been charged with attempting to frustrate the ends of justice.’
The coroner said he had heard nothing of any charge.
‘Certain officers have been sent down by the government to investigate the affair, and asked me for information. I refused to speak to them, sir, for I have answered all questions to you, sir, and to the jury directly, and I have spoken to Sergeant King, and I … have had … enough of it …’ His voice did not rise or fall, but remained on a level, as if he was desperately trying to keep control of his emotions. ‘As would I daresay you, or the jury, or any man in this room, if they had been … if they had been pursued … to this degree.’
The coroner looked at a man standing at the side of the room, whom I recognised as one of the London police detectives. ‘Inspector?’
The man stepped forward and stood by the side of Tom, who would not raise his head or turn to look at him.
‘I regret to say, sir,’ said the inspector, ‘that Mr Churcher has been most reluctant to afford information.’
Before the coroner could speak, Tom looked at the inspector for the first time and burst out, ‘You are no gentleman, sir! You are no gentleman! I am willing to state all I know.’
‘Mr Churcher, please,’ said the coroner.
Tom contained himself and spoke, his voice now shaking with the effort. ‘I have been shamefully treated. And the reason I declined to give information was that I have already done so, as I said, to Sergeant King, and to the inquest. And because the London policemen would not allow my father to be present at the interview …’
‘You are a grown man, sir – why should you need your father there?’ The coroner spoke harshly, I thought, as a man who did not know Tom Churcher; if he had known him as we all did, he should have been more understanding.
Tom looked sulky now, his head down. ‘Because I know well enough that all men are not honest men,’ he said, ‘and my father is better at telling them apart than I.’
Perhaps this statement struck the coroner as a true one, for he appeared to soften. He told Tom that his concerns had been noted, and that he was free to step down.
At that, he was about to clear the room, but of course Verrall had not yet been permitted to have the final word, and he raised his hand.
‘Mr Verrall?’ the coroner asked, with a heavy sigh.
Verrall stepped forward once more. He looked composed this time; the desperation of his earlier statement had dissipated.
‘Just to add, sir, that on reflection I feel certain that the testimonial referred to is the one I addressed to St Albans, which must somehow have been obtained by the deceased, and copied.’
He did not wait to be dismissed, but bowed his head to the coroner and returned to his place at the back of the room, with all eyes upon him. The coroner addressed the jury, thanked them for their forbearance, and asked for some time alone with them prior to an adjournment.
‘This will be a long adjournment,’ Richard Field said, as we walked back towards the town.
‘You are certain of that?’ I asked. ‘How so?’
‘If it is to be a matter of days, he tells the court when they will next assemble,’ he said. ‘I have noticed this. I feel certain it will be a few weeks.’
I did not respond, thinking of Emily, and going home to Shifnal. ‘We may then not see the verdict delivered after all,’ I said.
‘On the contrary,’ he said. ‘I will return whenever they next meet. I have to see this dreadful business to its conclusion. For Harriet.’
For Harriet. ‘What of Maria?’ I asked. ‘What if your child comes?’
He breathed deeply. ‘Well, then I shall have to forgo the hearing. God willing, the conclusion will be soon.’
We had reached the White Hart, where we would part company. I felt ambivalent towards him now. At first I had thought him a vile man for his treatment of my dear friend. Now, I thought of Harriet as someone who had allowed circumstances to overtake her, and afterwards had made things worse by using other people. Perhaps Richard, too, had been similarly used.
‘Harriet spoke of you often,’ I said.
Something crossed his face, a ghost of an expression. Fear? Or was it loss, hearing her name spoken?
‘She wrote to me of you, too,’ he said, smiling, the momentary lapse of control passed. ‘And I find you are quite as she described. What was it she called you? Her warrior? I feel she was right; an apt description.’ He offered me his hand, and I took it. ‘Goodbye, Miss Williams.’
‘Goodbye, Mr Field. No doubt we will meet again soon enough,’ I said. ‘My best wishes to Mrs Field.’
He went into the hotel and I stood there for a moment, feeling an inexplicable unease. Then I returned to the Bell, and enquired of Miss Davis whether she could send a boy to ask for a seat upon the last London coach.
Saturday, 21st February, 1846
Thomas Churcher
The fat detective called at our house again in the evening, when Emma was in the parlour. I told him at the door that I still had nothing to say.
‘I regret that we are obliged to persist with our enquiries,’ he said, or something like that, not smiling.
‘I shall answer no more questions,’ I said. ‘I have spoken to the coroner about the way you have hounded and persecuted me, and I shall talk to you no further.’
‘Thing is, Mr Churcher,’ he said, ‘Mr Pearce and myself, we weren’t fortunate enough to be present at the first inquest, and I just wish to be satisfied on one or two points.’
‘I have satisfied the coroner,’ I said, ‘and his man wrote everything down. You should go and ask to read it.’
I was about to shut the door in his face when Emma came through into the hallway, her face white apart from two high spots of colour on her cheeks. ‘Tom. Ask the man inside. I will not have our business discussed on the doorstep.’
I stared at him so he should know that I was unhappy about the invitation, but I opened the door wide and let him in. Emma took him into the parlour and bade him be seated, and I stood in the doorway until she said, ‘Sit down and answer the man’s questions, for pity’s sake, Tom, so that we can all be done with it.’
I sat, and looked at him. Emma went back to the
kitchen.
‘What time did you leave the chapel that night?’ he asked.
I breathed in. ‘About a quarter past five o’clock,’ I said. ‘I had been there to put up my music, and then I took the keys to Beezley’s, and then I went to my grandmother’s.’
‘And you went to Miss Williams’s house later on?’
‘With my sister. I have said all this.’
‘What time did you go there?’
‘I shall not repeat myself again,’ I said, getting to my feet. Truth was, I could not for the life of me remember the exact timings of that night nor what I had said over two years ago.
He grumbled something about co-operation and taking care of matters properly but our evening and our house had been disturbed enough by his intrusion. I could feel my hands curling themselves into fists. I stood close behind him, ushering him to the door.
I could hear Emma banging and crashing in the kitchen, scraping the chairs on the tiled floor and slamming drawers closed in the dresser. I waited outside until my breathing had returned to normal before I went in. She would not speak to me at first, and I thought she was angry at him, the detective, but it turned out I was wrong.
‘You pathetic little fellow,’ she said. ‘I’m so ashamed of you! How should you not just answer his questions? Why can you not just tell him what he needs to know? Tell him the truth and be done with it!’
I did not respond, but stood there waiting for it to be over.
She pointed a shaking finger at my face. ‘Or is the truth not something you can tell? What is the truth, Tom Churcher? Can you even tell me? I don’t believe you killed her, so help me, because you’re too afraid of your own shadow to do anything like that to anybody, but you were up to something that night, I know it. I know it! You did something that you won’t tell me, and for all you said that baby wasn’t yours I don’t believe you didn’t have your hands up that girl’s skirts because I saw the way you looked at her. You – you just about drooled over her when she came back from London! You couldn’t leave her alone, and all the while you said you were in love with me?’
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 27