The Murder of Harriet Monckton by Elizabeth Haynes

Author:Elizabeth Haynes [Haynes, Elizabeth]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781912408054
Publisher: Myriad Editions
Published: 2018-09-27T23:00:00+00:00

Richard Field

I was called to Bromley again in the early part of the year, for the resumption of the inquest. I had thought the whole business done with, concluded without me somehow, unreported in the newspapers, when in fact the business was resurrected unexpectedly with the arrival of the coroner’s letter.

Maria, pregnant with our second child, had been strangely unconcerned when I told her I had to return to give evidence a second time. She merely sighed and said if I had to go, then that was that. Thus released from my marital responsibilities, I wrote to book a room at the White Hart again, and took the coach down to Bromley.

The room where the second inquest was to be held was part of the Swan Inn, and was a low-roofed building which rambled on as far as the corner of the Beckenham Lane. The inn itself stood back from the road to allow the carts and carriages to pass freely around the sharp bend and onwards to London. I had spent some time walking up and down the High Street looking for it, for the coroner’s letter had directed me to the Swan and Mitre. But this had to be the place, for half the town’s population seemed to be heading through a door in the single-storey extension at the far end.

I joined them, and found myself in a room packed full of people all talking at once. The noise was overwhelming, and the aroma of bodies and clothes and malt and hops overpowering, for this had until recently been a brewing room. The innkeeper, whose name I learned was Matthews, was engaged with two or three members of his staff in setting out chairs at the back of the room, whilst at the same time trying to dissuade those canny members of the townsfolk from helping themselves to chairs from the store room. ‘Only for the gentlefolk!’ he repeated. ‘Hold off, there! Chairs for the gentlefolk – you can stand, right enough, Robert Cooper!’

The coroner’s assistant, a young man with a fair complexion and pink-cheeked with his own importance, was directing the operation from behind the table at the front. The jury had been seated on low benches to the side, and they were talking amongst themselves and watching the chaos. ‘Mr Matthews!’ called the young man. ‘Matthews, I say! We shall have to close the doors. There simply isn’t the room!’

Eventually the door closed and those who remained outside were forced to listen at the window, which thankfully remained wide open. Every opportunity for fresh air in this enclosed, darkened space, was much appreciated by those within it.

The coroner arrived moments later. Without his even speaking, an expectant hush spread through the assembled crowd. I looked about the crowd and saw faces I recognised; Verrall, taller than the rest, bare-headed, wearing his black gown, setting himself apart from the rest of them; Frances Williams was there, too, and several of those I had seen at the previous inquest.

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