Excerpts

Prologue: Monday, 6th November, 1843When 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 straightbacked, 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. Perhapssomeone 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 SYRIACUMFor treatment of those who have falleninto a state of chronic disability.Nervous disorders of every kind, sinkings,anxieties, and tremors which so dreadfullyaffect the weak and the sedentary will, in ashort time, be succeeded by cheerfulnessand every presage of health.Provided by R. and L. Perry, and Co.PERRY'S PURIFYING SPECIFIC PILLS19, Berners Street, LondonThe 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 onto 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. Excerpted from The Murder of Harriet Monckton by Elizabeth Haynes All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.