The Murder of Harriet Monckton Read online

  for Harriet, and her son

  not forgotten

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  I: 1843

  II: The Confession of the Reverend George Verrall, a Gentleman

  III: 1846

  IV: The Diary

  V: 1843

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  Monday, 6th November, 1843

  When Death comes to visit, he arrives clothed in the most unexpected of disguises.

  Harriet Monckton did not have time to think this, or remark upon something as profound as Death and Life. She did not even, in the end, have time to say her prayers or ask for help or confess her sins.

  But at least she was not alone. Such a privilege is not afforded to all; perhaps this act visited upon her was one of mercy.

  She did not deserve it – mercy, that is. Standing straight-backed, proud, a small frown as if she had been interrupted in the act of prayer, instead of what had actually just taken place, something far more earthly. The very air around her was filthy, contaminated. She reeked of sin.

  There had been conversation, a little of it: hushed, although this late and in this place there was nobody to hear. Perhaps someone might be walking home from a visit, along the lane, some thirty yards away, but, here, they were entirely alone.

  There is something else I could do to help you.

  She said, ‘I thought we agreed—’

  You’re not the first girl to find herself in trouble, you know. It’s obvious to anyone with an eye and half a brain. Look at you.

  She even looked down at herself. Dresses hide a great deal, but there comes a point when the swelling of a girl’s belly lifts the bottom of her stays and the whole shape of her looks odd. Looks wrong.

  ‘If I just had enough money,’ she said, ‘then I should go away and not trouble anyone any further …’

  This is a better way. Solves the problem altogether. Do you want it or not?

  ‘What is it?’

  A draught. It will help you get back to the way you were; the effect is very quick.

  She considered it. She even looked at the bottle, although she did not read the label. If she had, she would have seen this:

  THE CORDIAL BALM OF SYRIACUM

  For treatment of those who have fallen into a state of chronic disability.

  Nervous disorders of every kind, sinkings, anxieties, and tremors which so dreadfully affect the weak and the sedentary will, in a short time, be succeeded by cheerfulness and every presage of health.

  Provided by R. and L. Perry, and Co.

  PERRY’S PURIFYING SPECIFIC PILLS

  19, Berners Street, London

  The Cordial Balm of Syriacum, of course, was not what the bottle contained.

  ‘Surely it would be a terrible sin,’ she said, but already she was wavering.

  The look on her face. Dismissal, followed by doubt. Whatever plans she had made herself, they were not foolproof. Things could always go wrong. And how much easier it would be to wipe clean the slate, to start again. She would do things differently, of course. And her life could slip back to the way it was. She would be respectable, whole. She could go to Arundel, as she had planned to, before her problem manifested itself. She could still – although she was getting on in age – make a fair match.

  All of these thoughts visible on her face.

  ‘Will it hurt?’ she asked, and Death rubbed his hands with glee, knowing she was almost his.

  A little, perhaps. Not much worse than you suffer every month. It will be quick.

  It wasn’t a lie, not really. At least this particular suffering would be over with swiftly, and she would, actually, get back to the way she had been, albeit the state of existence before she was born. The state of oblivion.

  There was a moment’s hesitation, but then she uncorked the bottle and drank the contents down. Her last act on earth was a brave one. Perhaps that would make a difference.

  The look upon her face at the end, after the initial spasms and the shock of the pain that seared down her gullet as the poison took effect – thirty-five grains of it, they would estimate, when three-quarters of a grain was supposed enough to kill a man – was almost one of peace. Surprise, perhaps, that it should end thus. And here, of all places, illuminated only by a guttering candle. The supplier of the poison could slip away unnoticed. The agony was swift and profound. The spasms caused her to bite down on her tongue and arch backwards as she fell. There were no screams. Nothing but a squeak, and some rasping sound like someone trying to clear their throat. By the time she hit the floor, she was already dead. Dark blood bubbled from between her lips, the colour of varnish. Her eyes were half open, glassy.

  For some moments, there was silence.

  She would have to be moved, of course; she could not stay here. The second part of the plan was set in motion. Half lifted, half dragged … but then the small bottle that had been clutched in her spasmed fingers slipped free and clinked on to the stone floor, along with some coins.

  She was heavier than she looked. Perhaps she could be left, after all.

  The world would forget about Harriet Monckton. Within a few years, even her family would cease to talk about her. Just another girl who had fallen into sin, like so many others. It was better this way. After the initial shock, her family would thrive without her; her friends would be able to resume their lives in peace. The town would go back to the way it was, eventually: honest, righteous, sure in the knowledge that order had been restored.

  There had been no other choice. For the greater good, it had to be done.

  From outside the chapel came the sound of footsteps on the flagstones.

  Someone was coming.

  Tuesday, 7th November, 1843

  Frances Williams

  At first light I sent a boy to Harriet’s mother, to ask after her. Half an hour later, he returned with a note. Harriet was not there. She had not been seen by them since yesterday morning, when she went there to change her dress.

  The reply washed over me like cold water, and I knew then that something ill had befallen my dear friend.

  The conversations you have with yourself, at times such as this: you try to remain rational, to think through the events in a logical order. Last night, she had gone out to post a letter. She said to me she would be back soon, and she would make me some gruel. I was feverish, thick with it, not concentrating. She told me to get back into bed, to try to rest. She said she would not be long.

  I must have fallen asleep, then, for I woke and the room was cold, the candle burned low. And she was not there. I was dazed. I was shivering with the fever. I got out of bed and searched, in case she had returned and left me a note, telling me she had gone out again.

  But there was no note.

  I tried to sleep some more. I was not worried, not then; so many things might have happened whilst I slept. She might have been called away. She would not have woken me to tell me that, and perhaps she had not had time to leave a note. She might have expected to be back again before I woke. She might just have stepped outside for a moment, to speak to someone.

  But by then it was four o’clock. Too late to be out, too early to be out. It was dark night outside, still.

  In the end, I went back to bed and lay there, listening for her tread on the step outside, listening for conversation out there in the night, but all was quiet.

  And then, eventually, the message to Farwig, to Harriet’s mother, and the reply, and she was missing. Who would take my place at the school?
Harriet had promised to do it. She said she would take the girls’ lessons until I felt better, until I could manage to speak without coughing.

  I sent the boy to the schoolhouse, to warn Mr Campling that my deputy was missed; I told him the pupil teachers would have to manage for today.

  Oh, I went through all possible emotions, that morning. I was curious, I was vexed; I was fearful for her. Exhausted from another wakeful night, I knew my thoughts were not rational. Think, think, I told myself. You must know where she has gone. She must have said something, last night, something you missed. That she was going to visit someone else; but there was nothing like that. She went to post a letter. She said she would come back, to make some gruel. She said she would not be long.

  And then my thoughts turned to him, to Tom Churcher; outside, on the step, asking for her. I told him: Harriet has gone to post a letter. He wanted to wait. I told him he could not. I told him he should talk to her in the morning, and, in the end, he left.

  Perhaps he had seen her? Perhaps they had met, in the street? Perhaps an accident had taken place, somewhere; she had fallen, in the dark, injured herself and lain in a ditch, insensible, unable to cry for help?

  You think so many things. You try to find the right solution, to a mystery, and you can never quite confront what must be the truth. You veer away from it, because facing it is too terrible.

  Reverend George Verrall

  I was in my study working on the series of lectures I have been delivering on the subject of the Lord’s Last Supper, when through the blanket of my fierce concentration I heard the knock upon the door.

  Now when the even was come, he sat down with the twelve. And as they did eat, he said, Verily I say unto you, that one of you shall betray me. And they were exceeding sorrowful, and began every one of them to say unto him, Lord, is it I? And he answered and said, He that dippeth his hand with me in the dish, the same shall betray me. The Son of man goeth as it is written of him: but woe unto that man by whom the Son of man is betrayed! it had been good for that man if he had not been born. Then Judas, which betrayed him, answered and said, Master, is it I? He said unto him, Thou hast said.

  Thou hast said.

  It is you. It is you.

  And then, my wife at the door.

  ‘What is it? I asked not to be disturbed.’

  ‘Mary Ann Monckton. She insists upon seeing you.’

  I turned from my desk. ‘Well, show her in.’

  Sarah paused, then returned to the hallway. I heard Mary Ann’s voice insisting that she would not stay, and then she was shown into my study. I bade her sit beside the fire.

  ‘Sorry for disturbing you, sir,’ she said, refusing the seat. ‘I am looking for my sister.’

  ‘Harriet?’

  Afterwards I thought it a mistake to utter that name. Mary Ann had three sisters; that I knew Harriet more intimately than any of them was not something that should be brought to attention under any circumstances, least of all these.

  Sarah Dorset, born Monckton, and Elizabeth who is now Elizabeth Carpenter, and Mary Ann

  and then Harriet last of all

  best of all

  ‘Yes, Harriet. She was to have stayed with Miss Williams last night, and yet she did not. Miss Williams thought she must have come home, but she did not.’ The young woman appeared in some distress, struggling to offer even these few words.

  ‘Perhaps she has gone to some other friend?’

  ‘We cannot think of anywhere else she could have gone. We have enquired of everyone; no one has seen her.’

  I offered her a smile. ‘As you can see, she is not here.’

  My mind was still upon the word of the Lord. One of you shall betray me … Master, is it I?

  Mary Ann stiffened at my humour. ‘That’s what Mrs Verrall just said. If you don’t mind me saying so, sir, it isn’t very kind. I fear something terrible has befallen my sister, and, sir, if you’re not able to offer me any assistance in locating her, I should be grateful if you could remember Harriet in your prayers.’ She headed for the door.

  ‘Wait, please.’

  And she did not turn. She could not bring herself to look at me. It brought back a sudden memory of Harriet doing the same thing; late summer, the heat of it, stifling. Looking at the back of her neck, the whiteness of the skin, and the sheen of perspiration upon it.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. To help with the search.’

  one of you shall betray me

  Thomas Churcher

  I was working in my father’s shop. I saw Mary Ann Monckton come through the door, her face pale, shawl clutched tight about her.

  ‘Have you seen Harriet?’ she asked.

  ‘No,’ I said.

  It was not yet nine o’clock, and I was the only one present. Father was gone to the tanner’s.

  ‘Is she not at the school?’ I asked, because that was where she was most likely to be. ‘She is helping Miss Williams.’

  ‘I’m aware of that, Tom Churcher,’ she said, in that cold way she has. She thinks herself so fine, Harriet’s sister. She thinks ill of men like me. ‘She is not at the school.’

  ‘Well, she is not here.’

  ‘But you do not know where she is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And Clara?’

  ‘She is not here either.’

  And she tilted her head to one side and spoke to me as if to an imbecile.

  ‘I can see that for myself. Perhaps Clara has seen Harriet. Where is she?’

  ‘At home.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said, and made to leave the shop.

  I stared after her, thinking of Miss Williams, and that thing she said. They all believe me to be a fool. I am not clever like some of them. I am good at music and I am good at making and mending boots, and I am good at listening.

  Neither Harriet nor Clara paid it any mind, but I took it into my heart and I have thought about it much since then. You shan’t go to Arundel, Harriet. I won’t let you leave me. She said it lightly, with a smile, but her hand on Harriet’s arm was gripping.

  Mary Ann should have asked me for help, I thought. Had she asked me to come and search for Harriet I should gladly have done so. After all, I know Harriet. I know the places she likes to go, her secret places. I know her secrets. But her sister thinks me a fool, and for that reason I stayed where I was and waited for my father.

  Reverend George Verrall

  There being no sign of the girl, at half-past one o’clock I went to the police station and spoke to the officer behind the counter, a young man with sparse pale whiskers on his long chin.

  ‘Help you, sir?’

  ‘I understand a search is being made for a member of my congregation,’ I said, ‘a Miss Monckton.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A thought crossed my mind that this youth could, should he be so inclined, clap me in irons and throw me into a cell. He was scarcely older than my eldest boy. I licked my lips. ‘And there has been no news?’

  ‘Not so far, sir.’

  ‘I am very concerned about it,’ I continued. ‘Her state of mind, in particular. I fear something terrible must have befallen her. Poor child.’

  ‘What makes you say that, sir?’

  It was said with nothing more than an idle curiosity, vague interest, but my senses were brought alert. ‘Just that – a young woman, alone … and she has been somewhat … how to say it … a little troubled, perhaps.’

  stop fumbling over it, man

  say what you mean … Harriet is lost, entirely lost

  Satan has found her and taken her for his own, and she must be found

  none of that

  it won’t do

  it won’t do at all

  ‘Troubled, sir?’

  ‘It would be as well to consider that the Bishop’s Pond should be dragged. I wonder if that has been thought of? Perhaps I could speak with the inspector?’

  ‘He’s very busy, sir.’

  ‘Or the sergeant?’

 
; ‘Out on enquiries, sir.’

  ‘Quite, quite.’

  ‘I’m happy to note down your concerns, sir, or perhaps you should like to leave a note for the sergeant when he comes in?’

  don’t overdo it, George

  just a hint

  just a suggestion

  you don’t want them thinking this is all a bit suspicious

  I waited.

  After perhaps ten minutes, the sergeant emerged from the room at the back. Out on enquiries? Or just avoiding me, most likely. Samuel King, once a member of the chapel, but no longer. Full of his own self-importance and much in want of judgement.

  ‘Mr Verrall,’ he said, booming. ‘How can I help you?’

  I told him something of what I knew, and left as soon as I could. Outside, the day was still grey and cloudy. This time last year it was snowing; the beginning of November, and this curious warmth in the air, the smells of the town hanging in it like threadbare laundry, no breeze to disperse it.

  Tom Churcher was watching me from the doorway of his father’s shop. When I met his glance he gave me a nod. I felt a spike of fury, crossing the road with a purpose, striding fast and only just missing the butcher’s cart.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hissed at him.

  ‘Nothing!’ he said, alarm written all over his face. ‘Nothing. Have they found her?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing,’ he said.

  I softened, then. Poor Tom, poor sad boy, had he forgotten already?

  ‘I suggested they should drag the Bishop’s Pond.’

  ‘What for?’ he asked.

  ‘For Harriet, of course.’

  He looked at me, cow-eyed, blinking. A slick of perspiration on his pale brow.

  ‘Leave it until it gets dark,’ I said to him. ‘If there is no news by then, take someone with you, to look for her. Someone sensible.’

  I thought he was going to protest, but he stopped himself.