The Murder of Harriet Monckton

by Elizabeth Haynes

  ‘You have surely not left her alone?’ I asked.

  ‘She has a maid with her, to tend to the boy.’

  ‘Do you think we shall see a verdict today?’

  ‘I do hope so, Miss Williams,’ he said. ‘And you must also hope, as do I, that we shall see Harriet brought justice after all.’

  I told him he was mistaking the office of the inquest if he thought he should see justice. All we might hope for was a verdict of murder, by persons unknown. For surely there was no way a verdict of suicide could be returned, with all the evidence to the contrary.

  I was called, then, and re-sworn. The coroner made me repeat my evidence for the benefit of the jury, and for perhaps the third or fourth time I recounted to those poor, bored faces the story of my illness and Harriet’s letter, and Tom Churcher bringing gin. That Tom had not waited for Harriet to return, and had left the bottle of spirits sent by his sister, and had gone out into the night.

  I had said the same thing, with very similar words, so many times that I believed it myself. There were omissions, yes, of course there were, but they were not relevant ones. Did the jury need to know that, in fact, I had made my illness appear worse because I was so desperate to keep Harriet for a day or two longer? Of course not. That was my business, my shame. Did they need to know that Tom Churcher had tarried on my doorstop for several minutes, begging to wait for Harriet? No. Did they need to hear of the desperation in his face, that made him run out to the town again, to look for her? No. For I believed his desperation was born of a desire to love her, to protect her, not to harm her.

  Besides, they had not asked me a direct question.

  The coroner asked me if I had been asked by Tom Churcher to conceal his name at any point, for any purpose.

  I said I had not. Then, quite suddenly, I remembered. I said, ‘Yes, on one occasion Tom suggested it was not necessary for me to mention his name. Harriet was in the habit of going to the Sunday School room to take back the books. I acted as the school’s librarian, and was therefore obliged to keep account of them. On the Monday, Harriet returned the books for me as I was unwell, and that evening Tom said that he had seen her there. If I had thought Tom Churcher might have been in the chapel in the afternoon, I would not have sent Harriet with the books.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because the people in Bromley, as they always do, would have talked about it.’

  ‘Why did you withhold this information on your former examination?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘Because I agreed with Tom’s opinion that it was not necessary to state it. I saw Harriet alive and well later in the day than that, after all, therefore no suspicion could be attached to such a chance encounter.’

  ‘You may have heard, Miss Williams, that another witness has stated that she saw Mr Churcher and the deceased several times that evening, after the time you assert she left to post the letter. How do you respond to that?’

  ‘If you are talking of the testimony of Mrs Hopperton and her daughter, I would say that I disbelieve their evidence.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I know that they have both, in too many instances, stated that which is quite untrue.’

  One of the jurymen – the barber, Richard Hodges – raised his hand and addressed me.

  ‘Miss Williams,’ he said, ‘I urge you on behalf of the jury to tell all you know, else it might be necessary to send for you from the country a second time.’

  I replied, ‘Many of the new enquiries seem to be suggested by the tattle of the town of Bromley. If I were to reply to all the observations made, I should probably detain the jury some three days or above.’

  I heard laughter from the crowd behind me. How could they find it so amusing? I wanted to shake sense into them all, to remind them that Harriet was dead, in the foulest possible way, and yet her murderer was walking unfettered, and untroubled by these proceedings.

  Whether he thought me impudent or had merely reached the end of his questions, the coroner dismissed me then. There followed some discussion with Inspector Meadows, and the high constable, Mr Joyce, as well as Superintendent Pearce. None of them had any further comment to make at that time. No new evidence had come to light; the case stood as presented.

  I had returned to the crowd and found myself standing next to Richard Field. He nudged me. ‘Here we go,’ he said. ‘The end of it, at last.’

  The coroner declared the evidence closed. He read through a sheaf of notes passed to him by his assistant, and said there was nothing in the evidence to justify their coming to a positive conclusion with respect to any person, and so they would therefore, having fully recapitulated the evidence, leave the matter in the hands of the jury.

  ‘Thank God for that,’ said someone behind me, and we all left the room and went out into the bright sunshine, to allow the jury to deliberate. James Humphrey began passing through the dissolute crowd, taking bets as to how long the jury would take, but the wager was almost immediately voided, as the door opened and we were permitted back in. It had been less than five minutes.

  Hodges, who had been appointed foreman, was on his feet as we all filed in. He waited respectfully for everyone to enter and be still, and then announced that he and his brother jurors had unanimously agreed to the following verdict: ‘That Harriet Monckton was wilfully murdered by some person or persons unknown.’

  Despite this being the only possible verdict, considering the evidence, the room erupted into uproar. There was even cheering. I felt overwhelmed with it, breathless, tears rolling down my face, and I could not have explained why. I felt Richard Field take my arm, and I realised I must have stumbled. I held on to him gratefully, whilst, just barely audible above the din, Hodges continued, eulogising about the exemplary efforts of the coroner and the London detectives in bringing the matter to a conclusion. Nobody was listening.

  We were free.

  Richard and I walked together, as we had on those previous occasions.

  ‘Now you can return to your wife,’ I said.

  ‘And you,’ he said, ‘can return to Shifnal, and be a warrior for your girls once more.’

  I thanked him, and shook his hand, and we parted company.

  For hours afterwards, sitting on the coach, a strange griping sensation bothered me. It had something to do with Richard Field, for it had first troubled me the previous time I had seen him, and now it nagged at me again today. It was only as the coach reached Southwark that I had it, with a sudden shock. It had taken me all this time, the distraction of the inquest and the verdict preventing my mind from unravelling the mystery of it.

  Warrior, he had called me.

  He’d said that Harriet had told him that she called me by that name, but it was a lie; or perhaps, to give him the benefit of the doubt, he was confused.

  Harriet had not told him. Our secret, she had said; my word for you. She would not have written it in a letter. But I knew exactly where he had learned of it: Harriet’s diary.

  He had read Harriet’s diary, the lost journal I had searched, and searched for.

  He had read it, and the only possible occasion on which he could have obtained it was the night she died.

  The coach arrived at London in the early evening. I took recommendations from the coachman as to a boarding house for the night, and it was pleasant enough, providing me with a room that was small but clean, a bed that was comfortable but not enough to make me wish to stay longer.

  I lay for a while upon the bed, still dressed, my mind full of the inquest and of Harriet. My mind felt like a fly, buzzing from topic to topic without ever resting long enough to consider it properly. Firstly I thought of Verrall and Churcher, and how the suspicion had appeared to fly from one of them to the other; how the questions posed on one day seemed to fall against the minister, and his letters, and then at the next meeting the talk was all of Harriet being seen in Tom’s company. I supposed, now the verdict had been reached, the police would investigate further and arrest one or other of th
em, and then there would be a trial. For all the jovial spirit at the close of the proceedings today, the matter was far from over.

  I thought of Emily, and Shifnal, and how I might see her the next day, if I could get a coach to take me all the way. Then I thought of Richard Field, returning to Maria. Perhaps he was not yet home; I had expected to see him on the London coach, but he might have taken the coach that went via Beckenham instead, or caught a later one.

  I looked through the small window at the darkening sky, and got up, and found my boots and a shawl. I knew I should not sleep, not without asking that question.

  I found a hansom cab to take me to King Street, and I enquired of a flower-seller which house might be occupied by Richard and Maria Field. She did not know, but suggested I speak to Mrs Lewis at the Three Bucks, around the corner in Gresham Street, which I did, and was told that the Fields lived at number eleven.

  By that time it was nearly nine o’clock – really, far too late to pay a social call. And yet I had come all this way, and I fancied Richard was perhaps the type of man who stayed up late, reading or conversing or writing letters. And besides, as I stood outside it, the house was brightly lit, upstairs and down.

  It was a plain house, the middle of a row, with a flight of three steps up to a painted front door. It was like all the others in the row, neatly kept, with a small paved yard to the front and a young oak tree growing forlornly from the middle of it.

  I thought of Harriet, but of course she had never been to this house. The Fields had moved from Fieldgate Street, where Harriet had lived before Maria arrived and for a while after, in between the first inquest and the second. Perhaps Maria had felt the ghost of her at Fieldgate Street; perhaps she had wanted a fresh start.

  I climbed the steps and pulled the bell. I heard it ringing inside the house, and expected to hear sounds, perhaps footsteps, from within; but at first there was only silence. I heard laughter coming from an upstairs room in a house further along the row. Someone out on the street behind me was singing. There was the rumble of conversation and a clink of glasses from the open door of the public house on the corner.

  I rang the bell again, and looked at the door. It was not fastened. In fact it was slightly ajar. Still nobody came.

  Then, from inside, quite faint, I heard a cry.

  I looked behind me, but the street was empty. Not even a carriage on the street. I pushed at the door, and it swung wide on to a dim hallway, the tiled floor showing the staircase on the right, a door – closed – to the left. At the end of the hallway, another door was ajar. That, surely, must be the kitchen. ‘Hello?’ I called.

  From upstairs I heard a wail, and a shout. ‘Richard! Is that you?’

  I went inside and closed the door, and made my way up the stairs. ‘Mrs Field? Mrs Field, are you well?’

  ‘Help me, help me!’

  I hurried, then, and found the door to the bedroom open, the lamps lit. Maria Field was lying upon the bed in a nightgown, her hands clutching her swollen belly. Her face was white as chalk and shiny with perspiration, her hair loose and spread over the pillow, a dark tangle.

  ‘Mrs Field?’

  When she saw me she held out her hand to me, breathing hard. ‘Who’s that? Did Richard send you?’

  ‘It’s Miss Williams, Mrs Field. I haven’t seen your husband. Is he not here?’

  ‘He went to ask for the doctor,’ she said. ‘The baby – oh!’

  Her hand gripped mine so hard I felt the bones should break. The baby was coming, and I was the worst possible person to help her. I had never had anything to do with babies – the whole idea of it terrified me. Maria was overcome with some immense pain, her head lifting from the pillow with the force of it, her eyes closed, her teeth gritted.

  A minute later, the pain eased and she released my hand. ‘Sorry,’ she gasped. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She had no idea who I was, but in that moment she seemed relieved that she was no longer alone.

  ‘Where is your son, Mrs Field?’

  ‘He is asleep,’ she said, ‘thank God! If I have not woken him with my cries.’

  ‘Shall I see?’

  She nodded, and I left her for a moment. There were two further rooms on this floor, but neither of them held a sleeping child. I took the stairs to the second floor, and there I found the nursery, and a small boy fast asleep on his back, his thumb half in his mouth.

  I closed the door as another cry came from his mother, and returned to her.

  I wetted a cloth on the washstand, and used it to mop her brow as she was racked with pain once more. Her belly rose next to me and I tried not to look at it; it looked almost obscene, a horrid thing, like a deformity.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, resting onto the pillow once more. ‘Where is Richard? Why is he taking so long?’

  ‘It is late, Mrs Field. Perhaps he cannot find the house. Where is your maid?’

  ‘It’s her … half-day …’

  I wiped her face. She seemed a little calmer, and then her face creased. ‘It did not hurt like this, last time. There must be something wrong.’

  ‘I am sure you are quite fine,’ I said, although I had no basis for this assumption. ‘What about your neighbours? Is there someone else I can call upon for you?’

  ‘Them?’ she said. ‘Not likely.’

  And then the pains came again, and for a few minutes more my hand was crushed and all I could do was hold the cloth to her hot, creased face, and wait for it to pass.

  This time she looked at me closely. ‘Who did you say you were? I am so sorry. I feel I should know.’

  ‘Miss Williams,’ I said. ‘I was – a friend of Harriet’s, in Bromley.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘You were at the inquest!’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And what are you doing here?’

  ‘I was returning to Shropshire, where I live now. The verdict was today; perhaps Mr Field did not have a chance to tell you. I wanted to speak to you, and Mr Field, about something, and—’

  Her eyes closed and she gasped, and held her breath; this time she threw her head back on the pillow as if in a fit, and let out a sound from her throat, guttural, almost a growl. It seemed to me to last longer, this time, and the pain was so intense that when her eyes opened they were glassy, unfocused.

  ‘Mrs Field?’

  ‘Maria. For God’s sake.’

  ‘Maria. My name is Frances. What can I do? Fetch you something? Brandy?’

  ‘Brandy, yes. Downstairs, in Richard’s study. Quickly.’

  I ran down the stairs, grateful for something to do. The study was lit with lamps and the fire was burning low, as if Richard’s evening had been interrupted. A fine mahogany cabinet stood against the wall, a decanter and glasses on a tray. I sniffed at the brown liquid inside, determined it to be brandy, and poured a generous measure.

  At the door, I stopped. I heard the cry from upstairs, a wail, turning into a moan. I had the drink in my hand. Richard was not here. Maria was not going to get up from the bed. I looked around the room. Harriet’s diary might be in here, somewhere – perhaps concealed, or perhaps not, for there would be no need to hide it; I was not expected here.

  I walked back to the desk, which was littered with papers and books and other objects: an inkwell, dried and empty, on its side; an apple, on a plate, uneaten; a small pile of farthings and pennies. I longed to sort through everything and put it into order; I could not imagine the type of mind which could work and concentrate amid such chaos. I lifted papers and books, but the journal – bound in green leather, with creamy paper – was not in plain view. I opened drawers, and shuffled through the contents.

  From upstairs came another cry. I ignored it, thinking that Maria was so distracted she could have no clear idea of how long I had been gone. Drawer after drawer. More papers. Pens, ink, tobacco, a silk handkerchief, crumpled; letters, notes, a notebook, with nothing in it.

  I gave up.

  The back wall of the study was filled with bookshelves, and books. I lo
oked, vainly, for a moment, but I could see nothing that looked like Harriet’s journal.

  A quavering call came from upstairs. ‘Oh! Miss Williams? Frances!’

  I left the study and took the brandy upstairs to her. She sipped it, and pulled a face, and lay back on the pillow with a sigh. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you, thank you. Oh, why does Richard take so long?’

  ‘He will be back soon,’ I said, soothingly. ‘How do you do?’

  ‘Ill, I think. The pain is very bad.’

  ‘Try not to worry, Maria. It will make things worse, I am sure.’

  She gave me a flash of a smile, and then her mouth opened again in a soundless scream. She clutched at the covers, looking for my hand. I gave it to her and winced as my knuckles cracked. Her fingernails dug into my skin.

  ‘There,’ I said, ‘It will be over soon. Try to breathe.’

  Minutes passed. She writhed, and moaned, and then her voice rose into a wail so loud I thought she would waken the child upstairs. A clock, somewhere in the house, chimed ten times. I had been here with her for an hour, and there was still no sign of her husband.

  The pain left her once again, and she lay at peace, breathing hard, her eyes closed. ‘Do not ever marry, Frances,’ she said, but with it she smiled.

  ‘I have no plans to,’ I said, and patted her hand.

  ‘You are a friend of Harriet’s,’ she said. ‘Did she ever … speak of us?’

  ‘Often,’ I said, for it was the truth. ‘She thought of you as a very dear friend.’

  ‘She left us,’ Maria said. ‘She left me with Richard.’

  ‘Maria,’ I said, determined to broach the subject at last, ‘Harriet had a journal. You know of it?’

  Her eyes opened and looked at me, alarmed. In such a vulnerable state, she was unable to disguise her reaction. And then, just as quickly, she denied it. ‘No,’ and then added, ‘That is, she never kept a journal whilst she was with us, I am sure …’

  And then the pain returned, conveniently, and this time she doubled up and turned on to her side, her knees drawn up around her stomach, her arms around her belly as if to protect it. ‘This one …’ she gasped ‘… will kill me.’