‘Should I call on her?’ she asked.
‘I think she would like that very much,’ I said. ‘Come this evening? Though first I have to return some books for her, to the chapel for the Sunday School.’
All through this exchange I could feel Thomas’s eyes on mine. I told Clara she should come to us at around six, and she agreed and said she would bring cake.
When I got in Frances was awake, though still in bed. I prepared some soup and put it on to simmer, and she said that she was feeling quite well enough to eat a little and to get up and dressed for Clara’s visit, while I took back the books.
Mr Verrall’s request has been much on my mind. He had made his position quite clear to me, and yet he says that our meeting should be to my advantage? I do not trust him, and yet what can I do? If his wife has chosen to convey money to me through her husband, then I would fall to my knees in relief and gratitude.
As soon as I entered the chapel, I looked about for Thomas, for I knew he would be there. Out of sight of the gossips and in the dark, cool quiet of the empty space, he put his hand up to my cheek and kissed me. My breath was quite stolen by it.
‘I should like to be with you all the time,’ he said, ‘and not in secret.’
I said that I should tell him something that would make him change his mind about me. He said nothing I could say would do that, and I felt my eyes fill with tears at the thought of it.
‘You cannot say that,’ I said, ‘until you know.’
‘Tell me, then,’ he said.
There was a noise outside at just that moment, and we shrank back into the shadows.
‘Tonight?’ he whispered.
‘The reverend has asked me to meet him in the chapel, at eight,’ I told him.
‘What for?’
I told him that he had not informed me.
‘Are you afraid?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I said, for I would not lie to Thomas about anything. Whatever he asked me henceforth, I should tell him the truth.
‘Then I shall come with you,’ he said. ‘I will call for you before eight, and take you there, and protect you.’
‘He will not speak to me with you there,’ I said.
‘Then I shall wait outside, if you wish me to.’
I did wish it, and the thought of him waiting for me lifted my spirits, and I told him that he was a good, kind man, and I trusted him, and afterwards we should talk about everything. He said he needed to tell me something too. He said he did not want me to go to Arundel, but to stay here in Bromley.
I kissed him, then. However he should change his mind with the truth; for the moment he cares enough for me to ask me to stay. We shall see what this evening brings.
Monday, 6th November, evening
Frances and I have had a short but jolly sort of visit from Clara, and Thomas. Clara apologised that her brother was there, but he insisted on walking her across the Market Place; Frances told him he was welcome to stay, and so he did, although he remained sitting in the corner by the stove, and hardly said a word. Frances, having slept most of the day, was a little brighter, and perhaps the fever is passing, although her cough is persistent and her throat is very sore.
We talked of the school, and I said once more to Frances that her girls were a credit to her; she loves hearing this. She wanted to know everything they did, what questions each of them asked, how well they performed their drills, and whether I thought their singing had improved since the last time I heard them. I hope one day I shall be as conscientious, and as loved, as she is. Clara asked me about Arundel, and if I was very excited to go there. I told her I was, but I was anxious about Frances and would not leave her while she was unwell. I told them I would go to London first, and stay a day with Richard and Maria.
All the talk was very light and inconsequential, but my thoughts were pressing on me and making me feel almost dizzy with the weight of them. Only Thomas, sitting there quietly and watching me, made me feel any better. That I should have to tell him the truth! I had put it off for so long. If the reverend gives me money, or if Mrs Verrall does – or even if, at the last, I should tell Maria of my troubles and hope that she might help me – then I shall still tell the truth to Thomas, for he deserves my honesty if nothing else.
Clara left after forty-five minutes, saying that she could see Frances had grown weary, and Thomas left with her. At the door, he touched my hand, and I smiled.
I told Frances that she should get back into bed, and I would make her some gruel later, to help her throat and make her sleep more easily. She sat up in bed and watched me writing here, and asked me what I was doing. I told her I was writing a letter, and I meant it to go in the post tonight. This, at least, gives me an excuse to go out again later, but the act of writing it has given me another idea.
It is, perhaps, an odd one: but I shall take the coach to London on Wednesday, whatever happens tonight. I need to see Richard, and Maria, and if then I have enough money from whichever source to go somewhere and have my baby, then I shall do it; and if I have not, and if Richard and Maria will not take me, then I shall have to find a workhouse, and be brave and face whatever the Lord has in store for me.
Bromley
Monday 6th November
My dearest Maria,
Well, this is a peculiar letter to write! You must be wondering why I have sent you this parcel, and why I have written you another letter today, and sent it separately. The first letter is one that I expect Richard will open, and read; he will not be expecting a parcel, and perhaps then you will open it and see this letter before he has a chance to intercept it.
I find myself in very desperate circumstances, and, whilst I should have wished very much to confide in you from the beginning, Richard has led me to believe that you are weak, and fragile, and have been unwell since the birth of your son, and that to do so would be to put your life at some degree of risk. I kept this secret from you so as not to burden you with it, but I find I have reached the very limits of my desperation, and there is nobody left to whom I can turn. Perhaps I should have ignored Richard, and confided in you from the very beginning. I know you to be no feeble woman, after all.
Do you remember that night you sobbed in my arms, because you had reached the point at which your own pregnancy was impossible to ignore? I find myself now in the same position, but without the solace of a good friend. Without doubt the child is Richard’s, conceived before I left London for your sake, and yet you will see from the letters which are held between the pages of my journal that he has shown no inclination to help me, and in fact has been most unkind.
However, I hope you will also see, from this journal, that your very natural fears are entirely unfounded. Whatever his faults and whatever his behaviour towards me, Richard clearly has your interests at heart – he loves you. And you will be reassured too, I hope, that I have no desire to separate you, or to cause strife between you.
All I ask is for some help and a little kindness in this, my hour of need. My desperation and fear are feelings that you will recognise, dear Maria; and for me there is no prospect of a marriage to legitimise the child I carry. Therefore I beg you to remember the way I stood aside for you, and left London so that you and Richard could pursue your love without any distractions, and to please, please intercede with Richard on my behalf, if you are at all able.
Please believe that I do not send you this journal to cause you pain or hurt, but from respect. My dearest wish is that all three of us might together find a solution, and my hope is merely to spare you the shock of hearing the news from my lips, and to give you and your husband time, if you wish it, to discuss the matter privately between yourselves before I am with you. I shall still come to London in the week, if I am spared, although in my condition I will be unable to continue on to Arundel.
If you cannot or are not minded to persuade Richard to help me, then I shall go to a workhouse in London and trust in the Lord to take care of me. Please do read the journal, and keep it safe for m
e, and I will retrieve it when I see you. Until then, I remain your most loyal and loving friend,
Harriet
Thursday, 7th May, 1846
Frances Williams
Without my noticing it, the lamps had burned all their oil, and the light by which I read Harriet’s final words came from the grey light of the dawn.
Tears had flowed from my eyes, and dried, and flowed again, and at various points during the night I had risen, and stretched, and tended the fire; towards dawn I had opened the curtains, the better to see by. And, at six o’clock, I heard from upstairs the thin reedy cry of a newborn. Maria had been delivered of her second child.
Richard came back into the room shortly afterwards, and told me that she had a son, and both mother and child were exhausted but safe. The woman, whose name I never learned, hurried down the stairs, and was paid by Richard, and left: and not long after that the servant girl, who had been entirely unaware of the dramatic turn of events during her day of absence, came back into the house and set about making breakfast.
Richard brought tea, and said that I should have eggs, or kippers, or kidneys. I had not felt hungry at all until he mentioned food, and then my belly grumbled, and I agreed that a poached egg would do me very well. He seemed quiet and contrite, as I think he should be, considering the behaviour that Harriet had described in the journal.
‘You see, Miss Williams, I do not come out of it very well.’
‘No, Mr Field, I declare you do not. How did you come by the journal? Did you even show it to Maria?’
He told me that Maria had it first; that, as Harriet had intended, he had been fooled by the letter and not expected the parcel, so Maria had opened it and read it privately, and then, when Harriet did not appear as expected, and Verrall’s letter arrived instead, she had shown him the journal and bade him read it from cover to cover.
‘I see you are moved by the contents,’ he said.
I am not an emotional woman by nature, and it is rare that I am moved to tears. At that moment, the recollection of Harriet’s words, and the horror of her situation, sliced through me afresh, a knife-blade to my very heart. ‘She was so very brave,’ I said, ‘and she came so very close to freedom. I believe that if she had just told Tom Churcher the truth, he would have accepted her, and your child, and done everything in his power to keep her safe.’
‘You believe so?’ Richard said. ‘I rather thought he might have been the one to do it, myself.’
‘Tom? Of course not. He adored her; any fool could see it. I think the evidence of Harriet’s own words suggests that you are more of a suspect than Tom Churcher, Mr Field.’
He nodded, and did not deny it. ‘I agree; I betrayed her in every possible way. At the time I thought of nothing except Maria, and my own reputation, and it cost Harriet her life. In that way I am profoundly guilty; but in the real sense I had nothing to do with her death. In fact, the day she died, I was travelling back from visiting friends in Northumberland. If the police had asked, I should have brought witnesses to prove it. But they always seemed to suspect Mr Verrall and Tom Churcher above me.’
‘And Maria? I assume she could not have travelled to Bromley overnight?’
Richard let out a bark of a laugh. ‘With a baby? I believe she did not leave the house until the child was half a year old. She was severely weakened by it, and has never fully recovered.’
I drank my tea, and found myself much revived. At length he said, ‘Harriet’s intention in sending the journal might have been a desperate one, but I believe the result of it was that it saved our marriage.’
‘How could it possibly have done that?’ I asked.
‘Apparently Maria had known about Harriet and me from the very beginning, just as Harriet had known about Maria. I supposed I had been very discreet, but I underestimated both women’s intellect – which is indeed a very bad habit I seem to have developed. Maria loved and hated Harriet in equal measure, but hearing the whole story in the words of the woman who was first her friend … well, she saw that what Harriet had done was a very noble thing. And she also saw that what I had done was foolish and cruel, but that I had done it with the best of intentions towards her. That I was loyal to her, having chosen her.’ He looked at my face and shrugged. ‘Not much of a mitigating virtue, I agree, but one that is important to a wife.’
‘I am glad for it,’ I told him. ‘I do not believe Harriet wanted to come between you and Maria.’
He rubbed his fingers across his eyes, and I thought he was feeling the loss of Harriet very acutely in that moment. And, perhaps, the loss of his own child, who had died with its mother on the floor of the privy at the Bromley Chapel.
‘Who do you think did it, Miss Williams?’
I had been pondering that very thought all night, with every word Harriet wrote.
‘I rather fear, Mr Field, that I am more confused than I was at the start. I had thought Verrall the strongest suspect, and perhaps still he is the man. I believe the coroner thought him responsible. And yet, there are others: Tom Churcher, of course, though I do not believe it is he; and Emma Milstead, who is now his wife. And even Harriet’s own sister was against her. Any member of the congregation, fearing the scandal. If any of them had found out, or suspected, that Harriet was carrying a child, they might have been angry enough to do it.’
Richard sighed, and placed his coffee cup back upon the table. ‘Perhaps we shall never know,’ he said.
‘I rather hope the detectives will find it out,’ I said.
He looked at the journal, which was still in my lap. ‘Would you like to keep it?’ he asked. ‘I had intended to destroy it, but I have been unable to bring myself to do that. And I rather think the person who comes out of it the best is you, Miss Williams.’
I smiled, and held the journal close. ‘I should love to have it. I feel that I have met and loved Harriet all over again, for having read it.’
‘And you will keep it safe, and not share it with anyone? I am sure you understand why.’
I thought of Richard, who believed himself in love with my Harriet and yet had seduced her just the same – should I protect him, now, despite the faith he had shown in me? And what of Verrall? Here was the evidence that he had lied to the coroner, that he had assaulted Harriet again and again, and had asked her to meet him on the very night she died. I had thought myself the last person to see her alive, and now here was Harriet’s own testimony to report that it was Verrall, and not I. Did I not have a duty to share that information? But I had given Richard Field my oath, in that moment when he held the journal out to me and gave me permission to read it.
‘Of course,’ I assured him. ‘I promised you that, and you must know I am a woman of my word.’
‘Very well, then,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘I must go and see Maria. Please do have breakfast, and the maid shall find a cab for you. Will you return to Bromley?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I am going home. To Shifnal.’
He said, ‘Then I wish you Godspeed, Miss Williams. Mistress Warrior.’
I shook his hand. He looked at the journal, and at me, and then he smiled, and left the room.
Monday, 6th November, 1843
Harriet Monckton was dead. Any fool could see it, even by the light of the candle that Tom Churcher held in a shaking hand over the shape of her.
He was breathing hard, and fast, and dropped to his knees, clattering the candleholder to the flagstones and taking her up in his arms, shaking her. ‘Harriet! No … oh, no, God, no …’
She was still warm. He pressed his ear close to her chest, but all he could hear was the rapid pounding of his own heart, and the rustle of her dress, and something else, unidentified – a movement that might have been a ghost or a mouse or someone on the road outside. And then a wail, ending in a sob. He placed her carefully down. Her mouth was dark with blood, her eyes still a little open, clouded; her bonnet, pushed back.
Tom sat back on his heels, his hands tucked tight into his armpit
s, rocking himself back and forth, fighting to know what to do. He wanted to stay, in case she opened her eyes and spoke; he wanted to hold her to him while she was still warm, tell her he loved her now, although it was too late; the harm had already been done. He stroked one trembling thumb over her cheek, wiping away a tear that had fallen from her eye. The tears were falling from his own, so that he could barely see.
But then the anger rose in him and he got to his feet. This was wrong, all wrong. He left the candle by her side, so that she should not feel alone, and ran from the chapel, the door swinging on its hinges behind him. The night outside was as it had been, just a few minutes ago, when he had waited outside the chapel, hidden beside the Cage, deep in the shadow cast by the full moon that watched everything from a cloudless sky. But now, everything had changed.
He had seen Verrall go in. He had seen Harriet go in. They had been inside for twenty minutes, perhaps more – he had no real grasp on the time – and then Verrall had come out, alone, and had turned right out of the gate, heading up Widmore Lane towards his house.
Tom had waited. He had counted the minutes off in his head, and lost count, and given up, and gone to find her. He had thought she must be praying, or perhaps upset and crying, or even simply waiting for him, hoping that he had come to protect her as he said he would, even though she had gone from Miss Williams’s house without him and had not waited for him. He had searched the town for her, and then remembered that the meeting was supposed to be at eight, and had gone to the chapel and waited for her there.
For a moment he stood outside the chapel gate, whimpering, looking left and right as if Verrall might be there still, waiting for him. But he had gone.
The fury flooded through him again, and he began to run up the lane, faster and faster, the breath burning in his lungs; his side caught a cramp and he clutched it and did not stop. Ahead, he saw a couple walking and he kept running, even though the woman said something to him and the man made to stand in his path and he had to dodge to the side to avoid him, and he ran and ran all the way to the Verralls’ house.
The Murder of Harriet Monckton Page 43