The Murder of Harriet Monckton Read online

  ‘She’s dead,’ I said.

  And then Harriet lying on the flagstones in a bad way with her eyes open but not seeing, her bonnet tied under her neck but hanging off, her fingers curled, and how heavy she was to lift, and I’ve lifted her before but she felt heavier, she felt dead like an animal, not like Harriet at all. A snail worked its way along the edge of her boot, and I wanted to brush it gently away, as she would have done herself if she had still been breathing.

  ‘Something’s wrong with him,’ my brother James said.

  ‘Tom, sit down.’

  And Clara, coming into the parlour from the kitchen. ‘What’s happened? What’s wrong with Tom?’

  ‘They found the Monckton girl,’ my father said. ‘Dead.’

  ‘Harriet?’ Her hand, over her mouth. ‘Dead? Oh, no, no. Please, dear God no.’

  I went through to the parlour and hung my hat and coat up and went to sit down on the chair but instead I sat down on the floor and curled tight because then I might disappear. I did not know what to do, how to be. I curled up and I didn’t cry because I am a man and men don’t cry, even when bad, bad things happen. But then not crying made my stomach turn and I uncurled and went on to my hands and knees and was sick on to the floor.

  They were all watching me.

  Reverend George Verrall

  Sarah had locked the door, which meant she had gone to bed. She had left a candle lighted on the hall stand, and I carried it upstairs. From the boys’ room, all was quiet.

  other men come home drunk and insensible

  for my abstinence you should consider yourself fortunate, wife

  But she was not asleep. I took off my clothes and laid them carefully upon the chair. She stirred as I pulled the nightshirt over my head, and as I turned to the bed she sat up and looked at me.

  ‘I went to the Moncktons,’ I said, although she had not asked. ‘Poor, poor woman, her mother. She has barely recovered from the death of her husband.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware you knew the family so well,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t, to be truthful with you.’

  ‘Just Harriet,’ said Sarah. There was an edge to it.

  ‘And no longer Harriet,’ I said. ‘The poor girl is gone to be with the Lord.’

  ‘You think that’s where she’s gone?’

  ‘Sarah, please. Be kind.’

  ‘And she was in the privy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I made myself comfortable and blew out the candle. After a moment my eyes became accustomed to the dark, and the light from the moon visible at the edges of the curtains painted the room in a pale grey light.

  ‘How did it appear that she died?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘They are not certain.’

  We lay side by side in the darkness. In my head the thoughts of Harriet, living and dead, twisting around each other.

  the last time I saw her she was weeping

  and then silent, nodding her assent

  ‘It’s still so interminably warm,’ I said. ‘Surely we shall have winter soon.’

  her mouth, dark with blood

  ‘I’ll not wish for it,’ she murmured.

  Her tone had softened, and I thought perhaps she might be willing. Something about the day, the horror of it and yet the constant, constant reminders of Harriet, who she had been, and that I should never see her alive again. If I were a man given to sentimentalities, I should be in need of a wife to give me comfort at such a time of loss. I thought about saying this to her, but instead I turned in bed and put my arm about her waist. She did not move, but I felt her tense.

  ‘Sarah,’ I said.

  She had but rarely refused me. That, I would say, was to her credit. Men often came to me for advice, when their wives had grown cold towards them. Telling me that they had to be forceful, to push themselves through thighs gripped together, holding their women by the wrists. A symptom of getting older, I would tell them. Of childbirth, of tragedy. And I counselled the men to persist but to be gentler, and I counselled the wives to remember their oaths. But I took it as a sign of a successful marriage and a pure heart, that my own wife did not deny me my conjugal rights.

  And yet even before the boys, the three living and the two who have gone to the Lord, all she did was lie there, inert, waiting for me to finish. She could not even bring herself to lift her arms about my neck, lying there with her fists clenched into balls. In the dark I wanted to think that she could be someone else, but the thinness of her, the bones of her hips that dug in, the flat, slack skin of her belly, was too familiar.

  small wonder I sought release elsewhere

  how is a man supposed to function

  without the relief of it?

  Not a word was spoken. I lay in silence, my breathing slowing, thinking of Harriet.

  Frances Williams

  It was Beezley who told me the news. In my heart I knew, already, of course. She was nowhere to be found, for a whole night and a whole day, during which I looked out of the window and wished that she had gone to London early, without telling anyone; or perhaps had gone to Hackney to see Maria Field, or that she had gone already to Arundel. But there was only one possibility.

  And outside all day the grey skies and the unseasonably warm temperatures, and the breeze blowing bad news up the lane.

  At ten o’clock Tom Churcher had been outside, talking to Mrs Beezley. I saw him look towards my window, and then she turned too. Shortly afterwards he came to my door.

  ‘Mr Beezley says Harriet did not come back last night?’

  He did not ask how I was feeling. Perhaps he could tell by the sight of me; he looked pale and ill himself. He said he would make enquiries of her, in the town, and that he would pray. Fine help that would be. By eleven I guessed that half the town would be at prayer, or making a show of doing so at least. Hypocrites. How I despised them! Or, specifically, the adults. Not my girls.

  But by noon even I was making an attempt at a prayer, for there was nothing else to be done. Please let Harriet come home. Please, God, if you can hear me, let her be safe, after all. But to me it was like speaking underwater: nonsense, breathless, soulless; empty words.

  Then, at last: after dark – almost a full twenty-four hours since I had last seen my friend alive – Beezley rapped at my door.

  ‘You heard the news? They found Harriet.’

  As if standing where Beezley stood I pictured my own face, like stone. White, still, cold marble. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘In the privy at the chapel. Tom Churcher found her. With Sweeting.’

  ‘In the privy!’

  ‘Dead as dead. Poor child.’

  My face, like stone. My lips, like marble. Would not move.

  He was expecting something else. I tried to sculpt a different expression. Shock. Horror at it. ‘Dead?’

  ‘The surgeon has had her taken to her mother’s.’

  ‘Poor, poor Mrs Monckton. Poor Harriet. My dear friend. What can have happened to her? She was well enough just yesterday.’

  ‘I reckon you must’ve been the last person to see her alive, Miss Williams. She was here last evening, was she not?’

  Beezley’s face, florid in the light of his lantern and leering, inches from my door. His door; he owned it, after all. He missed nothing, between him and his vixen of a wife – good or ill, the business of Bromley town was conducted under their judgemental scrutiny.

  ‘Yes, indeed she was, Mr Beezley. She left to post a letter. When she did not come back, I thought perhaps she had gone back to her mother’s.’

  ‘She’s a good girl, to tend to a sick friend. Sorry. She was a good girl, right enough. God rest her soul.’

  ‘Mr Beezley, if you will excuse me.’

  I had been trying to close the door as he spoke, but the excitement of bringing the news had rendered him ruder than usual.

  ‘Of course. Our condolences to you, Miss Williams. I know you and she were very close.’

  I closed the door without thanking him. For a
moment my visage held its stony composition.

  Then it shattered, and I stuffed my fist into my mouth to stop the noise.

  Wednesday, 8th November, 1843

  Frances Williams

  The next morning I dressed before dawn. I had lain awake most of the night wondering what to do, how to act. Many things required my attention, but there was one task that was more pressing than all others.

  I wanted to see her and yet I could scarcely bring myself to contemplate it; I wanted to remember Harriet as she had been, not as she was now. Not dead. But propriety dictated that I should pay my respects to her family and so that was a good place to start.

  After that, I would have to go to the school.

  I made tea and left it to go cold, standing at the window, looking out over the street as it came to life. Dark shapes, moving in the gloom. All these people, going about their business as if nothing had happened.

  At six it was light enough to see my way and I left the house to walk the mile or so across the fields to Farwig. It was not cold, unusual still for November. Soon the weather would break and the winter chill would set in – short gloomy days and long, dark nights. And Harriet was dead.

  The door to the rooms where Sarah Monckton lived with her daughters – no, her daughter, Mary Ann – had black crêpe draped over the lintel. Just a scrap of it, like a veil, to signify the tragedy that had befallen the household. I knocked at the door and in a moment Mary Ann opened it. She was dressed, but not yet in mourning. A black shawl was all she had managed to find.

  ‘Miss Williams,’ she said, both as a greeting and as announcement to her mother, who was sitting in a hard-backed chair beside the fire, which had burned low. Despite that, the room was stifling. The body was laid out on the bed in a corner of the room, a sheet covering it. Neither Mary Ann nor her mother could have slept at all, unless they had dozed in the chair or on the floor.

  ‘I am so very sorry,’ I said, my voice as soft as I could make it.

  I have been accused by some of hardness of temperament, of being brusque and opinionated and cold. This has never mattered to me: in the schoolroom my manner is useful for keeping unruly girls focused upon their lessons; in the market, the barrow boys don’t try to short-change me. It pays to be seen as formidable.

  But here, with my dear Harriet dead and cold, under a sheet, and her mother and sister apparently so bereft, a gentler tone was called for.

  Mary Ann went to speak, but her mother interrupted. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘There is to be an inquest,’ Mary Ann said.

  ‘Indeed?’

  A look passed between them, a warning perhaps.

  ‘It is to be begun this morning, at the workhouse.’

  I swallowed hard, experimented with my new, soft voice. ‘Forgive me, but Harriet had some books from the schoolroom. I must take them back there today. Is it possible they are here?’

  Another glance from Mary Ann to her mother. Then she said, ‘Come with me.’

  The back room was smaller, another two beds within it, pushed against the wall with a narrow space between them. Perhaps the two women had slept after all. Perhaps they had left Harriet to sleep alone. The thought of it choked me. Mary Ann lit a candle, for there was scarcely any light here. The glow made things look even more shabby, although it was, at least, clean. Mary Ann indicated the second bed, a trunk underneath it. I pulled the trunk clear of the bed, and opened it. Mary Ann stood over me, with the light. I reached up to take it from her.

  ‘I’ll hold it,’ she said. ‘You need both your hands.’

  The school books were on the top of a pile of clothes. She could see them as well as I. I removed them and touched the dresses that lay underneath, pressing down to feel for anything solid that might lie below. All was softness. I ran my hands along the edges, where perhaps I should have tucked a book, had I wished to conceal it.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Mary Ann said. ‘You have your books.’

  I looked at her directly. People do not challenge you when you look them in the eye.

  ‘There is another missing. An arithmetic primer.’

  ‘Well, you won’t find it hidden, I’m sure. If it’s not there with the others, then you must have misplaced it somewhere else.’

  There was a catch in her throat; close to tears, perhaps, or anger. The candle flickered.

  ‘Very well,’ I said, getting to my feet, the books clutched close to my chest. ‘Thank you.’

  I placed the books on the bed and closed the trunk, sliding it back under the bed. Mary Ann was already heading for the door, the room slipping into darkness. My desperate eyes, chasing around the room in case I should see it lying on a shelf. As I took up the books I ran my hand over the bed, under the feather pillow. Nothing.

  There was nothing more to be said. I joined her, and her mother, and Harriet, in the other room. They both stared at me.

  ‘I apologise for the intrusion, Miss Monckton, Mrs Monckton. Perhaps if the arithmetic book should be found you might have it sent to me?’

  A curt nod from Mary Ann.

  ‘Once again, my sincerest condolences. Good day.’

  The sky was grey, light spreading from the east. People were on the path but I met the eyes of none of them. Hurrying, hurrying to get to the school where for a few blessed moments I could be alone with my thoughts. There was scarcely a half-hour before Mr Campling would arrive; in that time I should light the stoves in both the school rooms, prepare for the lessons, wash my hands and face and make tea. Routine would save me. Once I was there, in familiar surroundings, taking the lessons as I had done every day for the past eighteen months, I might feel safe.

  But on the path, in the school room, even an hour later when the girls were beginning their day by reciting the poetry Harriet had helped them learn just two days before, the thoughts were crowding upon me, tumbling over and over in my brain like pebbles churned by the waves.

  Where is it? Where has she hidden it?

  Thomas Churcher

  Emma called at the house twice.

  ‘She called at the shop,’ Clara said. ‘When you weren’t there, she came here.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘She’s worried for you, Tom. She wants to see you.’

  ‘Not today,’ I said.

  Emma did not want to see me. She was only calling to gloat at my condition.

  I stayed in my bed, shivering. I heard the door slam as Clara went out. I felt as though I had caught a chill, one that made my stomach bad. My head ached and I could not think; my hands shook. I could not work.

  An hour later, my father came.

  ‘Get up now,’ he said, his voice low. ‘Mrs Verrall is here to see you.’

  I got up without arguing, and found a clean shirt, pulled it over my head, and tucked it into my trousers. I washed my face in the bowl and dried it.

  In the parlour Mrs Verrall was seated in Father’s chair, her skirts spread about her. Her face was pale, and pretty, and she had a gentle smile. She made to stand when she saw me, and held out her hand.

  ‘Tom,’ she said. ‘I heard you were suffering.’

  My father was standing in the doorway. She gave him a look, and said that Ruth was waiting outside, and perhaps he could go and see that she was all right? He left us alone.

  ‘You must be brave, Tom. For you are such a good man, and such a friend to Jesus. The town is looking to you, for you were her friend.’

  ‘I know, miss, and that’s what makes it so hard.’

  ‘You know you are not alone. So many people here love you. And the Lord takes care of his own. Psalm Sixteen, Tom: the Lord wilt not leave thy soul in hell. Only pray, and trust, and look to the Lord, and all will be well.’

  ‘How can it be? How can anything be well again?’

  She had hold of my hand, and her grip was so gentle and so firm, I felt the tears starting. ‘I will pray for you, and the Lord will send you comfort. In the meantime, be strong. We know that all things work tog
ether for good to those that love God, to those who are the called according to his purpose. So it shall be with Tom Churcher.’

  I bent my head, so she should not see my fears. Behind me I heard the door open and my father’s voice saying to someone – Ruth Verrall, I guessed – that she should warm herself, and I wiped my eyes and let go of Mrs Verrall’s hand.

  ‘Here he is, Ruth,’ Mrs Verrall said. ‘And what a fine young man you have raised, Mr Churcher, that does such good and such kindness in our community. A credit to you.’

  ‘He is that,’ said my father, although he sounded surprised.

  She got to her feet, and Father was asking if she was sure she didn’t want tea, and he was only sorry that Clara wasn’t here to help, and Mrs Verrall was insisting that it was quite all right, and they had many calls to make, and she was only sorry to have interrupted our morning.

  At the doorway Mrs Verrall took my hand again, and smiled, and said, ‘You really should see Emma, Tom. She should be like a rock to you, at such a difficult time.’

  My head was a writhing mass of thoughts, like a bucket of worms.

  Harriet’s face, dark blood between her teeth; Harriet smiling up at me, turning her face up so I could kiss her. How she tasted. How her hand felt, small and delicate, inside mine. The sensation of her heart, beating. My finger on the skin at her throat, the pulse beneath it. She was so full of life! Harriet pleading with me, tears in her eyes. The Cage Field at night, the smell of the turned earth, still warm, underneath us. I said to her, I’ll not do that, I cannot, and she said, You should, Thomas, you must.

  She called me Thomas. They all called me Tom, well, most of them; apart from my father, when he was angry with me about something, or wanted my full attention. She called me Thomas and sometimes Mr Churcher, which felt like she was poking fun at me, only she was not. She made me feel more than I was.