House of Strangers

by Forsyth, Anne

  Cousin Chris smiled. ‘You are quite right, my dear, to make sure things are run in a business-like way. I don’t know what I should do without you.’

  Flora explained to the other guests that there would be an extra for meals. ‘I hope he won’t be loud,’ said Arabella. ‘And I hope he likes music.’ Mr Turnbull snorted, but Arabella paid no attention.

  ‘I know nothing about him,’ said Flora. ‘But we’ll try to make him welcome.’

  That first evening, she wondered if she had made a mistake. Mr Macpherson was not at all the quiet respectable traveller she had expected. He wore a suit in loud checks, he had mutton chop whiskers and a bulbous nose. ‘A little too fond of the bottle, if you ask me,’ said Arabella in a whisper to Margery Craig.

  He did not speak much at first, but shovelled his food into his mouth in a way that made Arabella shudder. Then he wiped his mouth with his napkin and looked round the table. ‘So!’ he said. ‘We’ll soon get to know one another. I’m Mr Macpherson to my customers, but you can call me Mac.’

  Mr Turnbull ignored him and Margery nodded briefly. Arabella simply stared at him.

  Oh dear, Flora thought, this was going to be difficult.

  Nelly came in to remove the plates and Mr Macpherson caught her apron strings. ‘I beg your pardon!’ Nelly could be distinctly frosty when she liked.

  ‘Oh, I’m just one for a bit of a laugh,’ he chortled. ‘ You don’t look the sort of folks that like a good laugh. I’ll soon change that.’ Nelly removed the plates and whisked out of the room.

  He’s very loud, thought Flora, trying hard to smile.

  ‘So you’re the young lady housekeeper,’ he said, turning to her. ‘Bit dull for you here, isn’t it? Among all these old folk.’ Arabella bridled and Flora said nothing. ‘Never mind,’ said Mr Macpherson. ‘Just you wait. I’ll ginger things up.’

  The next few days were no better. And mealtimes, which had been fairly tranquil with only the odd argument between Mr Turnbull and Margery Craig (which both would have admitted, they rather enjoyed), became fraught and difficult.

  Oh, dear, thought Flora, what are we going to do? She could imagine, in despairing moments, the other lodgers deciding to move out. She tried to find out where Mr Macpherson had come from.

  Cousin Chris was a little vague. ‘I believe he had stayed with Miss Grey for a few weeks, but he decided to move and she asked me if I could help.’

  Or perhaps he was asked to move, thought Flora a little grimly. She tried to be tolerant. He’s not bad, she told herself, just a bit loud—and maybe he finds us all rather staid. Though, she thought, no one could call Arabella staid, as she appeared at table in a flowing garment of vivid electric blue with a scarlet toque.

  Mr Macpherson had stared at her for a few moments, but said nothing—to Flora’s relief, She felt that Arabella would be a match for him. There were several days in the month when his firm sent him on visits to shops around the country, to Ayrshire, to Troon, and further to Largs and Ardrossan, and north through Arbroath and Montrose to Aberdeen. He would come back with extravagant stories of how he had been greeted as an old friend, of meeting cronies in the local pubs, and of his employers’ gratitude when they saw his order book.

  ‘I don’t believe a word of it,’ murmured Mr Turnbull.

  But Mr Macpherson was not put off by the silence which greeted his boasts. ‘Bet you‘ve missed me, eh, Miss Murgatroyd?’ he said to Arabella.

  ‘Hardly,’ said Arabella, in a tone that was meant to be dismissive.

  ‘Oh dear, oh dear,’ he laughed and turned to Flora, attempting to grab her round the waist. Flora ducked out of the way and busied herself at the far end of the table.

  Should she complain to Cousin Chris? But perhaps she was being prudish. She had no experience of this sort of behaviour and maybe this was fairly common.

  It all came to a head one Saturday when she was carrying a pile of linen to the rooms upstairs. Mr Macpherson appeared on the landing above. Flora tried to squeeze past him without a word, but he caught her by the arm. ‘Hey there, Missie, not so fast! Got no time for me this morning?’

  ‘I’m busy,’ said Flora.

  ‘Not too busy for a wee kiss. Come on, Miss, you know I’ve taken a fancy to you.’ She tried to duck out of his grasp, but he pressed her against the wall. ‘Come on, now, just a wee kiss for poor old Mac.’ Flora attempted to wriggle free. She could smell the beer and tobacco on his breath and turned her head to the side.

  She dropped the pile of linen and with both arms used all her strength to try to push him away. ‘Leave me alone!’

  ‘Oh, now you’re playing hard to get! I like that.’ His hands forced her head backwards. Flora was so afraid she couldn’t even scream.

  Then suddenly, footsteps pounded up the stairs. Macpherson was grabbed by his jacket and Flora caught a glimpse of his face, red, sweating and astonished as he was punched on the jaw and tumbled over the pile of linen to fall at the foot of the stairs.

  ‘Is he dead or injured?’ Margery Craig had appeared from the dining room just in time to see Mr Turnbull swinging a punch at Macpherson. She looked at the figure lying prone.

  ‘Not him.’ Mr Turnbull rubbed his knuckles. He pulled Macpherson to his feet.

  ‘You’ll leave her alone, right? And if you don’t, I’ll hit you a lot harder next time.’

  Macpherson looked blearily at him. ‘Oh, it was only a bit of fun.’ His voice faded as Mr Turnbull gave him a shake.

  ‘I’d be out of the door within the hour if I were you,’ Mr Turnbull said.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry.’ Mr Macpherson rubbed his jaw. ‘I know when I’m not wanted.’

  ‘I think you were wonderful,’ Margery looked at Mr Turnbull with admiration.

  ‘I did a bit of boxing in my younger days,’ Mr Turnbull admitted.

  Flora shakily gathered up the pile of linen. ‘You were simply splendid,’ Margery said, gazing at Mr Turnbull admiringly. ‘I’d never have guessed it of you.’

  Later that day Flora wondered what to do. Should she tell Cousin Chris? But there was no need. The unwelcome guest was spotted with his suitcase slinking out of the front door. Then she went into her cousin’s room.

  ‘I’m afraid,’ she began.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ said Chris.

  ‘Miss Craig has already been in—you poor girl, are you all right?’

  ‘He didn’t harm me,’ Flora said, ‘thanks to Mr Turnbull.’

  ‘Thank goodness. Miss Craig has told me they all want him to go.’

  ‘He’s already gone,’ said Flora. ‘And left without paying this week’s rent.’

  ‘A small price to pay. Who would have thought it of Mr Turnbull? Miss Craig was most impressed,’ said Chris. ‘I’m so sorry, my dear. I’ll be more careful in future not to take in just anyone.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Flora tried to reassure her. But she felt suddenly sad. Cousin Chris was not herself. Only a year ago she had been alert and kept an eye on all the comings and goings in the house. But now - she was quieter, a little remote.

  Flora was worried about her. Could she be ill?

  *

  The atmosphere in the dining room returned to normal, but now Mr Turnbull was something of a hero to the others. ‘It was nothing,’ he protested.

  ‘You are much too modest,’ said Margery. ‘Saving poor Flora as you did—you were a proper hero.’

  Nelly gave him an extra-large helping of stew. ‘You deserve it,’ she said.

  ‘And so say all of us!’ Arabella piped up.

  Mr Turnbull shook his head. ‘That’s enough.’ How peaceful it was now that Mr Macpherson had gone. Mr Turnbull nodded and smiled at them all and picked up his knife and fork.

  Chapter 22

  I hardly know where else I could try, said Flora to herself. Every day it seemed, Cousin Chris was growing a little weaker, but she still asked often about Dougal and Flora’s searches. ‘A fine detective, I’d make,’ Flora reproached h
erself.

  She had sent off her letter to the parish minister and for the next few weeks, she waited eagerly for an answer. At last a letter addressed in scholarly handwriting arrived. Flora snatched it up and went off to her room to read it. Now I’m getting somewhere! she thought triumphantly; but the letter was rather disappointing.

  Dear Madam,

  I am sorry to tell you that though I have made a thorough search of the parish records dating back a number of years, I can find no trace of one Dougal McCrae… I myself have been minister in this parish for 20 years and I know of no one of that name.

  I have however consulted one of my elders whose family has lived in the district for many years. He tells me that there was indeed a farm of your description, but though it was well tended by a hard working family, there was no one to inherit. A sad tale, I fear, and not uncommon, where there are no members of the family left.

  As to Dougal McCrae, no one knows of his whereabouts. He was believed to have gone to Edinburgh some time in the ‘60s but no more was heard of him. I am sorry I cannot give you more helpful information.

  Yours faithfully

  ‘So that’s that.’ Flora sat for a long time holding the paper. Clearly, Dougal had never gone back to the district—and indeed, had made up the story about his elderly parents. She thought back all these years. So what do I do now? she thought. What would Sherlock do?

  She would begin from the last known sighting, she decided. Dougal had left the house and boarded a tram for the city centre. After that, had heard nothing had been heard from him, and the addresses he had given in Edinburgh proved to be fake…

  So where had Dougal gone?

  *

  For days, Flora had wondered whether she and Will would ever be friends again, and she bitterly regretted her hasty words. If only I wasn’t so impulsive, she thought.

  She missed Will and his cheerful good humour, his willingness to listen; he had so many good points. And life seemed very dull without Will. Nelly kept asking about him—and Cousin Chris too.

  ‘I hope you haven’t jilted that young man,’ Nelly said in her direct way.

  ‘Me? No, of course not. I expect he’s busy,’ said Flora firmly. But a few days later when she was puzzling over the butcher’s bill—surely mutton had not cost that much?—when the front doorbell rang. ‘I’ll get it.’ Flora jumped up from the kitchen table, happily abandoning the butcher’s invoices. She opened the front door.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Will.

  ‘No, it’s me—I—who should be sorry,’ said Flora ungrammatically, smiling at him.

  ‘I brought you some flowers.’

  ‘I love violets,’ said Flora a little shakily. ‘Well, won’t you come in?’

  ‘We haven’t seen you for a bit,’ said Nelly reproachfully. ‘Thought you’d left us.’ She turned to pour boiling water into the teapot. ‘You’re just in time.’

  ‘Sit down,’ said Flora. smiling at him, and swept the butcher’s bill on to the floor. It could wait.

  ‘What about your cousin’s friend?’ he asked. ‘Two sugars, please, Nelly.’

  ‘As if I‘d forget.’ she sniffed.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ said Flora. But oh, it was good to have Will back again, to be able to talk to him. When they were chatting later, she told him about the letter. ‘So you see,’ Flora passed the minister’s letter over to Will. ‘There’s no trace of Dougal. He doesn’t seem to have lived in the parish and certainly didn’t take over the farm. Obviously there never was a farm; he simply made up the story to give himself a background, an air of respectability. Oh, where did he go?’

  She paused. ‘There’s another possibility Maybe he sailed for Canada - he’d talked about Nova Scotia.’ She gave a sigh. ‘I really don’t know where else I could try.’

  Will put his hand over hers. ‘Cheer up,’ he said, ‘We’ll think of something.’ He knew how much it meant to Flora to be able to trace Dougal.

  ‘Cousin Chris has done so much for me,’ Flora said thoughtfully. ‘I know this is probably a wild goose chase, but if I could find out anything about him and where he went… Oh, there’s no hope of getting the money back. It was all so long ago, but I think she would like to know what happened.’

  ‘He did mention Nova Scotia, didn’t he?’ said Will slowly.

  ‘You mean he might have emigrated and never a word ?’ Flora flushed. Her voice rose. ‘How could he be so mean?’

  ‘Listen,’ said Will. ‘We’ve got all the shipping lists at the office, going back for years. I’ll have a word with the manager; I’m sure he’d let me look through them…’

  ‘That would be wonderful!’ Flora brightened.

  ‘I’m not promising anything,’ said Will. ‘It was a long time ago, say 40 years.’

  Flora did some calculating. ‘Even more. The date would be the early 1860s, I think.’

  ‘Just the beginning of the age of steam,’ said Will, who knew a great deal about shipping and how gradually steam ships crossed the Atlantic much more quickly than the old sailing ships. ‘Maybe he sailed from Leith,’ said Will. ‘But more likely he travelled to Glasgow. The ships sailed regularly from Glasgow to Halifax. It shouldn’t be too hard to check the Canadian Immigration reports.’

  ‘Oh thank you!’ Flora beamed on him. ‘I’m so grateful to you.’

  Will wished she wasn’t always so formal, almost distant, with him. He would have liked to tell her just how he felt about her, but he knew she wouldn’t listen—not yet anyway. His aunt had spoiled so much for them—just as he was getting to know Flora. If only he could persuade Flora that his aunt was a foolish snob, nothing more; and he remembered that Flora’s Aunt Mina seemed to be just the same. No wonder Flora had been so eager to come and live with Cousin Chris. He suddenly looked determined. He would do everything he could for Flora.

  ‘If it’s too much work…’ Flora was hesitant.

  ‘Of course not. I’d be glad to.’

  It was, he knew, quite a bit of work, and his heart sank as he looked at the huge, bound volumes in the documents store. His manager, Mr Brown, looked a little surprised at Will’s request.

  ‘It’s a family matter - searching for a relative,’ Will had explained hurriedly.

  ‘All right then.’

  ‘It won’t interfere with the work,’ said Will. ‘I’d come in a bit earlier, maybe stay later.’

  ‘You go ahead. Ask Purvis to show you where all the ships’ records are kept.’ Jimmy Brown liked the young man. Connected to the family, wasn’t he, but you’d never know; no side to him, always willing to do a bit extra.

  Will started in 1860. He checked all the sailings that year, the names of long forgotten passenger ships. Sometimes he wondered what had happened to them all. There had been outbreaks of smallpox recorded in the shipping lists. Some passengers were transferred to hospital when the ship reached Halifax and the ship fumigated before it could sail again. It was easy, Will thought, to drift into byways in the investigation, wondering about other sailings, but he tried hard to fix his mind on the purpose: to find Dougal whatever.

  Flora was sorely tempted to ask, ‘How are you getting on?’ but she knew Will. He would persist in his search and wouldn’t tell her the results until he’d discovered Dougal. So what if Dougal had caught typhoid? It was a dreaded disease then and many passengers died. Smallpox, too, was a scourge. What if he never reached Halifax? That would explain a great deal.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ said one of the other clerks, who had also come to search the files.

  ‘I’ll know when I find it,’ said Will mysteriously.

  ‘Like that?’ The other clerk whistled cheerfully. ‘You’re putting in a good deal of work—here early, spending the dinner hour in the file room, working late.’

  ‘I’ve promised,’ said Will.

  ‘To a young lady?’ Will didn’t reply. ‘Ah well, I hope she’s worth it,’ said the other lad. ‘She must be special.’

  ‘Oh, she is.’
Will paused. ‘Look, you may have an idea. I’m looking for a name - someone who may have disappeared, back in the early 1860s, taken a ship from Glasgow to Halifax, or Liverpool to Quebec. I can’t find any trace of him, and I’ve been right through the shipping lists for the names of ships that sailed from Glasgow. The Syrian, the Assyria, all the steam ships.’

  ‘How do you know he actually sailed from Glasgow?’ said his friend.

  ‘I’m guessing,’ said Will hopelessly. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘He could have been a stowaway,’ said the other thoughtfully. ‘That way he wouldn’t be mentioned in the immigration reports or the ships’ lists.’

  ‘That’s an idea,.’ Will seized on it.

  ‘Did he have the money for the passage?’

  ‘Yes, I think he did. Steam was a lot more expensive, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said his friend. ‘I’ll help you look, and then if you’re stuck, you could always go along to the Seamen’s Mission - these old sea captains have long memories.’

  When Will told Flora of the plan, she exclaimed, ‘What a good idea!’ Flora was delighted. ‘I ought to write to the Matron, and then perhaps we could go along and see if any of the old sailors might remember.’

  Will noted her use of ‘we’. They were together again, he thought.

  Flora spent a little time writing a careful letter to the Matron of the home. She explained that she was enquiring on behalf of a relative about a friend. She thought about describing Dougal as a ‘family friend’ but decided that this wasn’t quite true. She added that her cousin was in poor health but would very much like to trace anyone who had perhaps served on the Syrian or the Assyria.

  The Matron’s reply was helpful and to the point. ‘Mr George Wishart, one of our residents, was a crew member on several of the ships sailing from Leith, and from Glasgow to Halifax and Montreal in the 1860s - he might have some memory of your friend.’ She added a note of visiting hours.

  Chapter 23

  ‘My memory’s not that good nowadays,’ said the old man. ‘But it was a grand crew on the Assyria—that I do recall.’