The Crimes of Charlotte Bronte (9 page)

In the end, although he had gone farther and farther afield for his drinking, he could get no credit at public houses, and Father said that even his best friends tended to avoid him when he was at his worst. I heard him ranting to Miss Emily that their father now gave him hardly anything, but I did not know how hard pressed he had become until much later, when Mr Nicholls trusted me fully and felt able to tell me most things.

It would seem that he just did not know which way to turn for a penny, because even the money that he was expecting from Dr Crosby was already promised to Mrs Sugden and Mr Nicholson. It must have seemed to him that his only hope lay in Mr Nicholls, for it was to him that he turned, but in a manner that was far more ugly than before.

Had he but known it – or perhaps he did – he could hardly have chosen a better time to up his demands, for by then Miss Emily and Mr Nicholls had become lovers in the fullest way.

Looking back, I see now how different Miss Emily became at about that time, and it is apparent to me that her first going with a man had been a wonderful happening for her, and one that changed her life. Mr Nicholls has told me that there was nothing she would not do for him after that first time together, and he took great advantage of that. Yet again he forbade her to mention their relationship to anyone, especially her sisters, and that would seem to have been another reason for her strange silence that folk noticed. She did not even go to London with her sisters when, in the Summer of 1848, they went to see Miss Charlotte's publisher. I had often wondered why she did not go, for
I
would have leaped at the chance, but Mr Nicholls has told me that he was against it because he thought that a constant watch should be kept upon Master Branwell.

Knowing much more now of Mr Nicholls' true nature, I am able to see how trapped and angry he must have felt after Master Branwell had been to see him with his threats, and he has told me that he was not only angry with Master Branwell but with himself for being so foolish as to let matters come to such a pass.

According to him, his dalliance with Miss Emily had gone much further than he had really wanted it to, and things had been made much more difficult by the writing of
Wuthering Heights
, although Master Branwell's silence about that did not seem as important as it had. Mr Nicholls has confessed to me that he still held out a slight hope that some of the money from the book might, somehow, find its way into his pocket, and so he wished to keep Miss Emily happy and untroubled but, that apart, he had not cared overmuch if Master Branwell blabbed about his hand in it. However, it was a much different kettle of fish when it came to the threat of telling Mr Brontë, and all and sundry, of what was going on between him and Miss Emily.

He was not sure just how much Master Branwell knew. If, somehow, he knew everything, that could lead to ruin, and so he had to be kept quiet at all cost, but how? Mr Nicholls was already feeling the pinch, especially after paying the previous sums to Master Branwell out of a wage of less than £100 a year, and there was just no chance of him being able to afford more. In any case, Mr Nicholls knew enough of the world to be sure that rarely are blackmailers satisfied, and therefore he could see that Master Branwell's demands would go on for as long as he drew breath.

Mr Nicholls became very sad when he told me of these things. He said that he had never really wanted anything more than a quiet, comfortable life, but then it seemed to him that Fate was bent upon taking away from him even the little that he had. When he had tried to explain to Master Branwell that he just did not have the cash his words had fallen upon deaf ears, and it had seemed that what he called ‘the nasty little sot' was about to ruin his good name, his job and his future.

He said that he told Miss Emily how he felt, and found her almost as desperate as he was. She managed to scrape a little more money together to keep her brother quiet for a while, but by then she too had come to see that he would never be satisfied, and she was worried to death about how it would all end. That, of course, was something that was in Mr Nicholls' mind all the time, but he was angry that Miss Emily should be so burdened because he thought a lot of her.

They lived in daily fear that, although it was to his gain to say naught, Master Branwell would nevertheless tell all when he was drunk, and the constant worry began to tell on Mr Nicholls. He said that he was not able to put his mind to his duties, and he wandered around like a man in a daze. Indeed I know that to be true, for I well remember Father asking me if I knew what was amiss with him. Of course, I did not know then, though I sensed that it was something to do with Miss Emily. In fact, I did not know until so many years later that none of it seemed to matter, but here is what Mr Nicholls told me.

He said that for two years he had watched Master Branwell going downhill, in the hope that he would die an early death. That would have been to everybody's gain, and was much to be wished for. However, he had not obliged, and by the time that I am writing of Mr Nicholls could see no end to the troubles that he caused him and Miss Emily. He worried over the matter for weeks, but the only answer that kept coming to him was that Master Branwell should die, and quickly. That, he said, was when he was finally driven to see that the tight spot he was in could be righted only by stern action, and that he should take matters into his own hands. It was evident to all that Master Branwell was drinking himself into an early grave – he would just hurry things along a little.

Mr Nicholls told me that he was surprised that he suffered no doubts or misgivings once he had decided to murder his tormentor. His Faith had never been strong but, in any case, with Master Branwell seemingly bent upon destroying himself, it seemed that what he had in mind was really a kind of mercy. Anyway, he felt he
deserved
to die.

Mr Nicholls had disliked Master Branwell on sight for what he was although, oddly enough, he had been somewhat jealous of his popularity and some of his ways when in company. However, the dislike had deepened gradually as he came to realize that Master Branwell and his friends were laughing at him behind his back, and I can vouch for that because many was the time when Father mimicked him and made us all laugh,

Then Mr Nicholls learned a great deal of what had really happened at Thorp Green Hall, and that sickened him. Dislike had become hatred as Master Branwell's goings-on became worse, and the blackmail started, until the time came when Mr Nicholls loathed the sight, smell and sound of him. Master Branwell had come to stand for everything that Mr Nicholls hated and despised – but above all he feared him for the harm he could do.

I once asked Mr Nicholls why he had thought it necessary to kill him, thus putting his own life and soul in peril, when, as we all knew, Master Branwell was slowly killing himself. He looked at me a little sadly, and then said something like: ‘But that was the whole point, Martha my dear, he was doing it
slowly
. Left to his own devices, he might have gone on for years, and that was something that I could not bear to think about.' Of course he was right, and I felt a little foolish for asking.

Having decided what he was going to do, Mr Nicholls wasted no time in putting his plan into action. On Friday, 22nd September, 1848, Master Branwell was out and about in the village, and very much his usual self. The next day, though, he was forced to take to his bed – which, in itself, was not unusual for him – but by Sunday morning he was dead!

As Mr Nicholls had supposed, nobody was surprised by his sudden passing, and the village doctor, Dr Wheelhouse, signed the death certificate without a second thought, although Father, who knew about such matters, was of a mind that a postmortem examination should have taken place.

Master Branwell was buried in his father's Church. I was not allowed to go to the funeral, but Father did and he said that it was very moving, and that there were a fair few folk there. What surprised many though was that, of his three sisters, only Miss Emily went. Miss Charlotte said that she was ill, and Miss Anne made the excuse that she had to stay home to look after her.

I did not hear any of that until after the funeral, and so I wondered why they were not there instead of sitting at home whispering together. I saw no signs of Miss Charlotte being ill, and certainly she never took to her bed. Even if she had, there were enough of us in the Parsonage to have seen to her wants for the short time the service took without Miss Anne staying away as well.

I thought it all very sad.

[
] Writer after writer states that Branwell died from tuberculosis – more commonly known as ‘consumption' at that time. That, however, just is not true, and is yet another example of how the accepted Brontë legend feeds upon itself. I have a copy of Branwell's death certificate before me as I write, and it gives ‘Chronic Bronchitis, Marasmus' as the causes of death.

Now I must confess that, although I am an amateur criminologist, the medical condition of ‘Marasmus' was not one with which I was familiar. It necessitated reference to a reputable medical dictionary. The definition given therein was ‘A progressive wasting,
when there is no ascertainable cause'
. (My italics.) It was not until much later that a pathologist friend of mine told me that ‘Marasmus' is one of those high-sounding terms employed by doctors when they really have no idea of from what a person has died!

That same friend and I have given a great deal of thought to what substance Nicholls may have used if, in fact, Branwell Brontë
was
poisoned.

Obviously, the first one at which we looked was laudanum, otherwise known as tincture of opium, because it is well documented that Branwell was addicted to it, and addicts can, within moderation, drink it like wine – the only effect being one of stimulation. In those days it was said to be a preventive against consumption, and it was also used widely as a sedative, even for babies.

For Arthur Nicholls, the advantages of administering an overdose of laudanum would have been that it was widely available, cheap, easily administered and left no odour on the breath. Also laudanum has other important properties. A lethal dose does not cause death until seven to eighteen hours after being taken, and the effects may be postponed for several hours more if it is taken with alcohol.

How very easy it would have been. Branwell would drink anything alcoholic, especially if it was free, and so all that Nicholls would have had to do was wait until he was approached for more money and then offer his victim, say, a few brandies which were laced liberally with the drug. Branwell would have been appreciative of the drink, and Nicholls would have had ample time to be elsewhere when death occurred.

Could he have used arsenic? Again, it is a possibility. It would have fitted the bill almost as well as laudanum, and better in some respects, but we shall discuss poisons later, and in more depth.

I consider it of great importance that I have been unable to discover any mention of Branwell being ill just before his death, except that he had a cough. Indeed, on 9 October 1848, Charlotte wrote to Ellen Nussey saying that
‘neither the doctor or Branwell himself thought him to be so close to death'
. (My italics.) Yet, even so, the good doctor did not see fit to arrange an autopsy. He merely fudged the death certificate, and Arthur Nicholls and the Brontë family breathed a collective sigh of relief – albeit for different reasons.

Following her brother's death, Charlotte was instantly, and very conveniently, stricken with ‘bilious fever', and was therefore, she said, too ill to attend Branwell's funeral.

As Martha has told us, Anne did not go either. Such behaviour was only what one would have expected in the light of their opinions of their brother, and despite some of the hypocritical terms in which Charlotte wrote about him after his death. Compare her letter to Ellen, of 4 November 1845: ‘I wish I could say one word to you in his favour . . .' with that to W.S. Williams, of 6 October 1848: ‘When I looked on the noble face and forehead of my dead brother . . .' and one sees vintage Charlotte.