House of Strangers

by Forsyth, Anne

  She waited for Will to catch her up. ‘Did you want to tell me something?’

  Will grasped her hand. ‘Stay still a moment, Flora. Please.’ He sounded so serious that Flora gazed at him in surprise. ‘I haven’t been quite straight with you. I’ve meant to tell you for a while, but there never seemed to be a right moment.’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Your cousin has been so kind—inviting me to meals, and that.’

  ‘Well,’ Flora said, trying to lighten the atmosphere, ‘you do need feeding up. And I don’t suppose you and your friends can cook—men don’t.’ She went on, ‘I do appreciate your inviting me out, concerts and so on. But you mustn’t feel you have to.’

  Now was the moment, she thought, to mention something that had been on her mind. How could he afford all these outings? Cabs, meals out, visits to the theatre.

  ‘It’s expensive,’ she went on, ‘taking me out. I do enjoy it, but I’m just as happy with a walk, like this today. And,’ she plunged on, ‘maybe you don’t earn very much.’

  ‘Well,’ Will hesitated. ‘I should perhaps have said.’

  ‘Don’t.’ Flora interrupted him. ‘I know what you’re going to say. You aren’t very poor at all. I never thought you were.’

  Will looked puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well… ‘ Flora paused. ‘If you were a poor shipping clerk, your cuffs would be frayed - sitting at a desk all day. You would not be able to afford a clean collar every day. But your collars are always immaculate. You say you sometimes walk from your digs to the office, but your boots are like new, so I think that maybe you take a tram - there and back. So you are not short of money for laundry bills and other expenses. Yet you have made no secret of working in a shipping office, so I suspect that you are not just a humble clerk. Didn’t Conan Doyle make Sherlock Holmes deduce from a man’s appearance where he worked? For example, he could tell from a man’s fingers if he worked in an office. Possibly you are more senior and learning the business?’

  Will gazed at her in astonishment. ‘How did you guess all that?’

  Flora blushed. ‘I’ve told you before I am a great admirer of Conan Doyle and the stories of Sherlock Holmes, so I try to observe everyone I meet, and make guesses about their way of life.’

  Will laughed. ‘My word! You are quite the detective, aren’t you? A lady detective.’

  ‘That’s what I should like to be,’ said Flora. ‘Though I can’t see any prospect of my ever entering the profession. But tell me—was I right about you?’

  Will nodded. ‘Pretty accurate. My father died, oh years ago, and my uncle James, my late uncle, took me into the firm, to train. It’s Harding and Halliday; you may have heard of them.’

  ‘Yes, well, I have.’ Flora recognised the name of the large shipping company.

  ‘I wanted to start from the bottom,’ Will went on. ‘Just so that no one could say I was the boss’s nephew - and that’s how I got promotion.’

  ‘So that’s why you share digs with the other clerks.’ said Flora.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he said. ‘I mean that I wasn’t frank with you to begin with. That I let you go on thinking I was just in a lowly position, earning a poor sort of wage. And now… well, I’m not rich, but I can afford to take you to concerts, that sort of thing.’

  ‘I don’t mind,’ Flora said. ‘In fact I rather admire you working your way up in the firm. And,’ her face flushed, ‘I like you for yourself.’

  He reached out a hand across the table. ‘That’s as it should be. Now let’s go and have tea and I could eat a Paris bun. What about you?’

  *

  Flora continued to be puzzled about Mr Turnbull. What was he doing here? She knew he taught at the local high school, but he was often quiet, even secretive. Sometimes he would take little part in the conversation at the dinner table, as if he was preoccupied with something else, and after the meal would rise quickly and make his way back to his room.

  Once or twice she had met him on the stairs, and he would mumble something and move past her in a furtive kind of way. And several times she had passed him on her way to the attic—what was he doing there? Was he searching for something?

  Flora knew that he was often at home during the day, on those days when he had no classes to teach. So she decided to find out once and for all, and one quiet afternoon, when Cousin Chris slept and Nelly was drowsing in front of the range with a magazine, she made her way up to the attic

  The door stood open and she could hear faint sounds of movement inside. What if he was armed? What if he confronted her and tried to push her down the stairs? Flora’s imagination ran riot and she took a deep breath. ‘Control yourself,’ she thought. ‘This is no way for a private detective to behave.’

  Very gingerly she pushed the door open.

  Chapter 14

  Mr Turnbull stood with his back to her but wheeled round as Flora shrank back. He smiled at her. ‘You’ve caught me red-handed, Miss,’ he said, seeming quite unconcerned.

  Flora gaped at him. How brazen could anyone be? Mr Turnbull laughed. Actually laughed!

  ‘I know this probably looks suspicious,’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Flora, recovering herself a little. ‘ It does.’ She waited for him to speak.

  ‘You must be wondering,’ he went on,’ what I am doing here.’

  ‘I did in fact,’ said Flora.

  ‘Quite the lady detective,’ he said with a chuckle. He isn’t the least bit ashamed, thought Flora. ‘Well, since you’ve caught me, I’d better explain.’

  ‘I should think you ought to,’ said Flora.

  ‘Actually, I’m looking for a room,‘ said Mr Turnbull.

  ‘But…’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ He paused. ‘You know I’m writing a book on the Picts in my spare time from teaching those dunderheads.’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ said Flora a little weakly. What had all this to do with his invading the attic?

  ‘My life’s work,’ he said solemnly. ‘And while I can do a certain amount in the library, I write every evening and when I have a day free. I’m at a very important stage.’ His eyes shone with enthusiasm. ‘Would you care to read some of it?’

  Flora hesitated ‘I’m sure it’s very interesting, but you haven’t said why you are looking here in the attic.’

  ‘I told you, I am looking for a room.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said Flora lamely.

  ‘Indeed. My room, where I am trying to write is next door to Miss Murgatroyd,’ he tugged at his moustache.

  ‘Oh, the singing,’ said Flora, her face clearing.

  ‘Exactly. From morn ‘til night, that blasted woman—I beg your pardon, that wretched woman—practises her scales. Up the scale, down the scale, swooping up and down… it is frankly excruciating. Now do you understand? I want a study where I can write in peace.’

  ‘I see,’ said Flora. She looked round the attic. There was a roll top desk and a desk chair, as well as a parrot’s cage, boxes of books, tennis racquets, a cricket bat… ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘it’s possible that some of this stuff could be cleared. Would you like me to speak to my cousin?’

  ‘I would appreciate it…’

  Flora couldn’t resist adding, ‘I wondered actually, why you were staying here.’

  ‘Really?’ he said. ‘And did you come to any conclusion?’

  ‘I thought you must have had a difference of opinion with your wife.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘And that, ‘ Flora went on, ‘ is why you have left home to live in a boarding house. But I have noticed that you do like home comforts, so I guess you had a wife who looked after you well,’ she said a little sternly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘You always look neat and tidy, so I would think you have lived a fairly orderly life until now.’

  ‘And you believe I have had a falling out with my supposed wife and am staying here until we make up our differences.’

  ‘Something of the sort,’ sa
id Flora. ‘I think,’ she went on, ‘that you may be regretting the move. I have noticed that you have been rather hot tempered lately; well, perhaps a little more than usual, so something is troubling you.’

  To her surprise, Mr Turnbull laughed. ‘Quite the little lady detective, aren’t you?’ Flora blushed. ‘So you think I am escaping from a termagant of a wife.’

  ‘It was just a guess.’ said Flora, rather embarrassed now.

  ‘And completely wrong,’ he said. ‘There’s no mystery about my residence here—and no wife either.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Flora, feeling rather foolish.

  ‘So, Miss Sherlock Holmes, there’s no wife. Nor has there ever been. I have lived for some years with my widowed sister. Now she wants to move to be nearer her daughter. I could if I wished, rent the house, but I’ve no desire to be encumbered with a property and all that that involves. A boarding house with meals at regular intervals, peace to work—that especially—suits me far better.’ He looked quizzically at her. ‘And you’d noticed that I am a bit irascible, sometimes?’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Flora. ‘ I had no right to...’ her voice trailed off.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mind. I’m a reasonable sort of man, except,’ he added, ‘when that woman starts singing—off key. It is enough to madden any man. But if I could be out of earshot, at the top of the house, where I can work in peace and privacy away from that dreadful singing, I would be the best-tempered fellow in the whole of Edinburgh!’

  Flora nodded. ‘I understand the sound of Miss Murgatroyd’s practising can be trying. I’ll ask my cousin about your using the attic. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘And there’s a splendid view over the rooftops,’ he said. ‘Everything I could wish for.’ He paused. ‘There’s another thing, Miss Flora. I owe you an apology. The other week, a Saturday it was, I brushed past you, on my way out of the house, in a great hurry. I must have seemed very rude.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Flora. ‘Though I did wonder just for a moment why you had such an urgent appointment on a Saturday. But it was none of my business,’ she added.

  ‘It was quite simple,’ said Mr Turnbull. ‘I was so absorbed in my work that I had forgotten the time. I was meeting my sister off the train at Waverley. She’d have been really furious if I had been late.’

  So that was it, Flora thought. I should stop inventing mysteries, where there is no mystery at all.

  *

  Cousin Chris smiled when she heard Flora’s story. ‘Of course he can use the attic. Perhaps you’d ask Betsy to help you clear away some of the things. There is a great deal that I won’t ever need again. I had a parrot once,’ she remembered. ‘I believe the cage is still there. It was a foul-mouthed bird, and quite aggressive. Yes, do go ahead and clear a space for Mr Turnbull. I would like to keep letters and photographs, of course, and my china shepherdess.’ She glanced at the mantelpiece. ‘She will stand there once she is repaired.’

  Later, Flora said to Will, ‘I have been such a fool.’

  ‘Have you?’ Will looked puzzled. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I suspected Mr Turnbull. He was up in the attic several times, and I wondered. It was all quite innocent, as it happens,’ she explained.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Will, comforting her. ‘ Everyone makes some mistakes. Even Sherlock Holmes, I bet, but we don’t read about these.’

  Flora’s face lightened. ‘Anyway, I won’t be so quick to judge in the future.’

  ‘Now,’ he said, reaching across the table for her hand, ‘let’s talk about something else. I have an idea.’

  Chapter 15

  When Flora thought back over the past months, she could hardly believe how quickly the time had passed. It seemed no time at all since she had come that September day nearly two years ago to Cousin Chris’s house. The year 1911 had given way to 1912, and Cousin Chris had made no further mention of a probationary period on either side but seemed grateful to have Flora looking after the house.

  She is quiet and considerate, Chris thought, and I am glad to have her. Flora knew she had made the right decision in coming to join the household. Every day she felt more confident, and the boarders, had moved from being intimidating strangers with their own mysterious backgrounds to being friends.

  There were occasional letters from Aunt Mina, the most recent announcing that she had become a grandmother. She always finished with some words of advice on how Flora might behave. Flora, in her new confidence, skipped those paragraphs before throwing the letter in the fire. Aunt Mina never issued an invitation to visit, nor did she seem to have plans to visit Cousin Chris, and Flora was grateful for this. But she bought a gift for Nancy’s baby and sent it with a card of good wishes. She smiled as she imagined Aunt Mina lording over the nursery but then reproached herself. Her stay in Aunt Mina’s household had not been a happy time, but ‘Best forgotten,’ she told herself, ‘It’s in the past, and I shouldn’t bear a grudge. After all, I am happy and fortunate now.’

  And Will—sometimes she wondered what the future might hold for them both; but for now she was content with their friendship, undemanding, sharing outings in an easy companionship.

  And now Will said, one day in late 1912, ‘I have an idea for Hogmanay.’

  ‘Hogmanay?’ Flora put down her tea cup and looked across the table at him. It was such a treat going to Mackie’s tea room. The scones were light, the tea strong and freshly brewed, and the cakes!

  ‘Wake up,’ said Will. ‘I was asking you about Hogmanay. How you celebrate it..’

  ‘I don’t think we did at Aunt Mina’s.’ said Flora thoughtfully. ‘Maybe the next day she would have a few friends in - a glass of Madeira, perhaps. I once dropped a tray,’ she said. She shuddered, even at this distance remembering the crash of glasses, and Aunt Mina’s horrified expression.

  Will laughed. ‘Well, I think we should bring in the New Year properly. A tall dark man bringing a lump of coal. Coal for heat during the year…’

  ‘Black bun for food during the year.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘And whisky, of course.’

  ‘But do you…’ Flora paused, ‘don’t you want to celebrate with your family?’

  His smile vanished and his face seemed to close up. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said carefully. ‘We don’t celebrate much.’

  Flora knew by this time not to ask questions. But she wondered. Why did he never talk about his family? Had there been a rift of some kind?

  But then his face lightened. ‘I could bring along Dave—he’s a lad from my digs. He plays the accordion. He’s tall and dark. Just right for a first foot.’

  ‘Let’s talk to Cousin Chris about it,’ said Flora as they rose to leave.

  Will was by now a favourite with Cousin Chris. He called in about once a week when he brought Flora home from an outing, and was always willing to sit and chat and listen to her memories of Edinburgh and visits to relatives in Glasgow.

  ‘I remember,’ said Chris now, ‘that we used to bring in the New Year. We would fling the windows open and let out the old year, and be ready to welcome in the new. Mother would spend weeks beforehand cleaning; she’d have the maids clear out all the cupboards and put in fresh lining paper.’

  ‘You don’t need to go that far,’ Will protested.

  ‘Maybe not. But I know Nelly will do her best.’

  Nelly was enthusiastic. ‘I made my black bun some weeks past,’ she said. ‘You won’t have tasted one like it.’ Flora knew it would be special—that rich spicy concoction of fruit within a pastry case. ‘And I’ll make shortbread,’ Nelly went on. ‘And maybe sausage rolls. The men like sausage rolls.’

  Arabella was just as enthusiastic. ‘A party,’ she trilled. ‘ And there will be singing, no doubt. I must look at my music and decided what would be most suitable.’

  Mr Turnbull would come, Flora thought. And Miss Craig maybe.

  Margery Craig had been very quiet ever since her arrest and her night in the cells.


  She would sit, head bent, at the dining table, and after the meal would make her excuses and leave quickly.

  Mr Turnbull, on the other hand, was much more jovial. He even exchanged the odd friendly word with Arabella.

  Flora hesitated before speaking to Margery Craig. She didn’t want Margery to feel in her debt and thought, perhaps it’s better that we’re not too close. As far as she knew, Margery still attended the suffragette rallies, but there was no more talk of action. She seemed to spend a lot of time in the local library, and took to going round museums.

  One evening after dinner, Margery picked up the newspaper which Mr Turnbull had left behind in the dining room. She spread it out on the table and was engrossed when Mr Turnbull came back. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon,’ she said very formally. ‘This is your paper, isn’t it?’

  ‘I came back for it,’ he said, ‘but please—if there’s anything you want to read.’

  ‘It was an article about the Vikings,’ she said. ‘I thought it would be useful for my class. We’re learning about the Vikings at the moment and this article about a Viking ship is so interesting.’

  ‘You teach history?’ he asked.

  She nodded. ‘I collect articles, pictures, anything that might be interesting. History can be so dull,’ she added, ‘just lists of dates. I want the children to know how people lived.’

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘Please keep the newspaper if you like.’ She thanked him, and they stood silently, a little awkwardly. ‘I didn’t know you taught history,’ he said after a bit. ‘Much more stimulating, I think, than dinning English grammar into the heads of dunces who don’t want to learn. Many of them will go into the mills, and what use will English grammar be then? As for the girls—those who do manage to get to school—they’re going to leave, go into service, marry young, have broods of children. What use is education to them? It’s a losing battle, I sometimes think.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ Margery Craig flared up. ‘Education is not wasted on girls. Even if they go on to marry and have children, they’ll be better wives and mothers. And why shouldn’t girls become lawyers and doctors and teachers? Times are changing, Mr Turnbull.’