House of Strangers Read online

  ‘And now who’s here?’ said Nelly in exasperation, breaking off as she came to the climax of the story. ‘At this time of the day too. It’ll be the baker’s boy. I’m going to have a word with him about these rolls—they were a couple of days old.’

  She flung open the door, about to confront the hapless messenger.

  ‘Oh, good day.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘It’s you.’

  The young man with the sandy hair, and a broad grin, was not at all put out by this welcome.

  ‘I came to ask about the young lady. I hope she’s recovered.’

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Nelly, still flustered.

  ‘I should have gone to the front door,’ he apologised. ‘ But I thought...’

  ‘Oh, hello!‘ Flora tried to leap to her feet, forgetting her injured ankle and sank back into her chair with a grimace.

  ‘I hope you’re better,’ he said.

  ‘Much better, ‘ said Flora, ‘and I felt so ungrateful not thanking you properly. I didn’t know your name.’

  ‘You do now,’ he said. ‘Will Harding.’

  Flora introduced herself. ‘And this is Nelly.’

  ‘I am pleased to meet you,’ he said solemnly. ‘Now we are formally acquainted.’

  Nelly was dusting a chair. ‘You can sit down if you like, but you’d be better upstairs.’

  ‘The kitchen is fine,’ he said.’ What are you making?’

  ‘Tattie scones,’ said Nelly. ‘Or maybe you call them potato scones.’

  ‘My favourite.’

  ‘Then you’ll take a couple away with you.’ Nelly was pleased and went on speaking to the lad. ‘My, it was handy you were there to help Miss Flora home. I don’t know how she’d have managed else. And I needed the semolina for the Holyrood pudding.’

  ‘Holyrood pudding?’ He raised his eyebrows.

  ‘It’s an old recipe. A steamed pudding made with semolina and marmalade—I got it from my granny. She was a cook and went to classes in Edinburgh.

  ’Anyway, I’d run out of semolina, and Miss Flora said she was going to the shops and she’d fetch it.’

  For a moment Flora felt exasperated—was Nelly always as talkative?—then as the cook turned her back to attend to the oven, Will winked at her, and she giggled instead.

  ‘So what,’ Nelly turned from the stove, ‘are you doing here at this time of day? Should you not be at your work?’

  ‘I had an errand in this part of the City,’ he said, ‘and I thought I’d call in, just to ask for the young lady.’

  ‘You’d best be getting back then,’ said Nelly severely, ‘or you’ll be getting your books.’

  Another knock at the door; this time it was the baker’s boy, and Nelly, towering over the timid young lad, gave him her opinion of the rolls. ‘Stale they were,’ she said dramatically. ‘Stale!’

  ‘It’s not me that bakes them, missus,’ the boy defended himself. ‘I just deliver them.’

  ‘Well, you can tell your master,’ she said, ‘there’s other bakers in Morningside.’

  While her back was turned, Will whispered to Flora, ‘Would she allow me to invite you out?’

  ‘She’s not my keeper,’ said Flora indignantly. ‘I’m here to help my cousin.’

  ‘Miss Dunbar,’ he put in.

  ‘You’ve heard of her?’

  ‘Everyone has. She was well known. Her father was in shipping, and she worked for all kinds of causes. Formidable lady, but got things done.’

  ‘That’s Cousin Chris,’ said Flora with a grin. ‘She asked me to come and replace her housekeeper.’

  ‘So you’ re a relation?’

  ‘Very distant. I met her when I was very small and then a few months ago at a wedding. She was as bored as I was, and she invited me here to housekeep.’

  Will drew a hand across his brow. ‘What a relief! I thought maybe the cook was a relative, and here you were Cinderella, sitting in the kitchen peeling potatoes.’

  Flora laughed.

  ‘So quickly,’ he said, ‘ before she comes back, can I invite you to go for a walk?’

  ‘Not at the moment,’ Flora pointed to her ankle ‘ I wouldn’t get far.’

  ‘Well, later on maybe. And meantime, there’s a concert on this week. Would you like to come with me? Or do you have to ask for permission?’

  ‘I’ll tell my cousin,’ said Flora, ‘and she won’t object.’

  ‘Good,’ he smiled at her. ‘I’ll call upstairs on Friday about seven o’clock and introduce myself properly. We’ll go by cab—would that suit you?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Flora smiled at him.

  ‘Well, we won’t have any more trouble there.’ Nelly returned from her confrontation with the baker’s boy. ‘Now, I’ll wrap you a couple of scones in a bit of paper, and you’ll be off. Back to your work.’

  ‘They look grand,’ said Will, taking the parcel.

  ‘Does your mother not make tattie scones?’ asked Nelly.

  Will hesitated. ‘No—no she doesn’t.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy these,’ Nelly told him.

  ‘til Friday,’ He mouthed at Flora.

  She smiled and nodded back, surprised to discover that her ankle hardly hurt at all.

  Chapter 8

  By Friday she was very much recovered and looked forward to the outing. When Will called for her, at the main door this time, she answered the door eagerly, and took him to meet Cousin Chris. Unlike Nelly, Cousin Chris didn’t quiz him on his job or his background, and Flora was grateful for that.

  ‘You must come again soon,’ she said. ‘ Come and talk to me next time.’

  ‘I’d like to.’

  The evening passed all too quickly, and Flora couldn’t remember when she had enjoyed herself so much. Looking sideways at her during the concert, Will noticed the creamy skin, the lips slightly parted, the expression of complete absorption in the music. She was not pretty, he had already decided—her features were too sharp for that. But with her flushed cheeks and her eyes shining, she looked different from other girls he had known. Quiet and serene—more like the subject of a painting, he thought.

  And Flora, she liked his sense of humour, his easy manner. As the cab drew up at the front door, she realised that she hadn’t felt awkward or bored.

  ‘I’d like to call, if I may,’ he said formally as he helped her up the steps.

  ‘Please do,’ she said equally formally. ‘Cousin Chris took to you—I think she’d like a visit. She doesn’t have many people calling. Not younger people anyway.’

  ‘Then I will. And I hope you’d welcome a call too?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said equally formally. Then more warmly, ‘I’ve so enjoyed the evening.’

  ‘So did I.’

  He waited until she had reached the top step, then waved and was off.

  Flora was glad that Cousin Chris went early to bed, and that none of the lodgers were around. And Nelly would be asleep by the kitchen fire, the black kitten curled up on her knee.

  She wanted to relive the evening: the music, the companionship, the special feeling of being escorted, of being chosen for herself. That was the best feeling she decided, of being someone in her own right; not a helper or a niece, tolerated but not one of the family, of always being someone in the background, someone whom young men didn’t bother to notice.

  Dreamily she made her way upstairs.

  Next day, as Flora checked the butcher’s invoice, Nelly was all agog, eager to hear about the evening.

  ‘He’s a gentleman, I’ll say that for him,’ she said. ‘Fetching you in a cab, no less.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Flora, adding up the shillings column, paid no attention.

  ‘That’s one who knows what’s right and proper,’ Nelly went on. ‘I said that to myself.’

  Flora ignored her.

  ‘I was wondering what’s his job,’ Nelly went on. ‘Works in a shipping office, he said.’

  ‘Really?’ Flora’s tone was a little frosty.


  ‘Well, at least he’s got a good job,’ said Nelly. ‘ Does he stay at home with his folks?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Nelly didn’t seem to notice that Flora’s tone was distinctly chilly.

  ‘Ah, well,’ said Nelly seeing there was to be no more information from Flora, ‘We’ll no doubt hear in due course.’

  ‘And why should you?’ Flora was a little tired and was having difficulty in adding up the columns. ‘It’s none of your business and I wish you’d be quiet!’ Her voice rose and Nelly, taking umbrage, turned her back and began scouring pots at the sink.

  Immediately Flora felt ashamed of herself. Nelly was only showing an interest, after all.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered, and escaped upstairs.

  There was no sign of Betsy, who was busy upstairs tidying the rooms.

  Both Mr Turnbull and Miss Craig had left the breakfast table. ‘Work to be done,’ announced Miss Craig, folding her table napkin, ‘even though it’s Saturday.’

  ‘ I am off to the library—my research,’ announced Mr Turnbull. No one asked what his research involved, and he paused, as if waiting for someone to enquire, then said, ‘Well, then, I‘ll be away,’ and disappeared.

  Arabella had stayed a little longer at the breakfast table, but eventually, she too had gone upstairs and now Flora could hear the soprano practising her scales, her voice soaring a little uncertainly.

  Now that Flora was able to move more easily, she decided to search the attic again. Cousin Chris’s memory was as sharp as ever, and if she said there was a china shepherdess in the attic, it must be there, somewhere.

  Downstairs, Cousin Chris was busy writing letters, Nelly was making a steak and kidney pie, and the little maid Betsy was sweeping the front steps. Flora climbed the stairs and opened the door to the attic. She sniffed. There was years of dust here, she thought, and a strange smell made up of damp, decay and probably, she decided a little nervously, mice.

  To air the room, she propped open the door with a couple of large tomes—an encyclopaedia and a large medical dictionary.

  She began systematically at the window, noticing as she stepped carefully over the piles of books and sheet music that there were other footprints—prints that led towards the roll top desk.

  Flora paused, considering. She had not been up here for about two weeks, and certainly last time, she had not cleared a path to the roll top desk. Someone had been here. Or more than one person?

  She began at the window, moving round towards the chimney breast. There were a few ornaments, a brass plant pot, a very ugly china vase, and a couple of china dogs, but nothing of any value, and Cousin Chris had told her that the shepherdess was quite valuable. Minton china, she had said

  At last she came to the roll top desk. On top of the desk and inside were envelopes; she glanced at the addresses and saw they were addressed to Miss Christina Dunbar.

  There were folders of photos too; looking at the top one, Flora recognised a young Cousin Chris, standing solemnly by a statue, her hand resting on the plinth.

  Maybe Cousin Chris would like to see these, she thought. Glancing round, she decided there was nothing of value or even of use. Who would want a parrot cage, or a length of moth-eaten carpet, or boxes of writing paper curling at the edges, or piles of newspaper, twenty years old?

  Cousin Chris had been a hoarder, she thought sadly. Flora was so absorbed that she did not hear the door closing or the books used as doorstops being moved, but turning round, she saw that the door had been closed. She pushed the door open. ‘Who’s there?’ she called out. ‘Anyone about?’

  She leaned over the banisters and looked down the stairs, but there was no one there. Someone had closed the door. Flora was not over imaginative, and she was perfectly sure that it had not been an accident. Even with the window open, the wind was not strong enough to blow the door shut. And besides, the encyclopaedia and the medical dictionary had been propping open the door. And there they were, pushed aside.

  Flora stood for a moment, puzzled. But then she shook her head, determined to keep a close watch on the attic. Meantime, she would have to tell Cousin Chris that there was no sign of the china shepherdess.

  Later that morning she was slowly climbing the stairs to her own room, when Mr Turnbull came rushing down, almost pushing her over in his haste.

  ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ he exclaimed. ‘Excuse me, miss. I’m in a tearing hurry. Very important business.’

  His tie was askew, his jacket unfastened and his hat planted anyhow on his head.

  ‘Mr Turnbull!’ Flora called after him. ‘I wondered if—’

  ‘No time, no time!’ he called back. ‘Another time. I have a very important engagement.’ He looked at his watch.

  On a Saturday? Flora wondered. What was making him rush down the stairs—and where was he going in such a hurry?

  As she entered Cousin Chris’s room, Flora looked at the little French clock on the mantelpiece. It was a pretty thing, with a pleasant chime. And it would chime shortly for twelve o’ clock. So where was Mr Turnbull going? Not to the library, where he spent much of his time, Flora thought. The library would be open all day. The bank maybe? She was a little puzzled by his haste. Normally he moved slowly, at a deliberate pace. Somewhere that closed at noon, perhaps? The bank maybe? The post office nearby? There was a lifting at 12, but he wasn’t carrying anything. Flora shook herself. It’s none of my business, she thought.

  But there was still some mystery about him. A few days later she met Mr Turnbull again. He was hurrying down the stairs and looked embarrassed when he saw her. He brushed past her with only a nod and disappeared into his own room on the first floor. Flora made her way thoughtfully into the attic.

  The sash of the window had been pushed up - Flora remembered how stiff it had been and how she’d tried unsuccessfully to push the window up - it needed someone with more strength, a man, she thought. So Mr Turnbull had been in the attic. And what was he doing?

  ‘There is something definitely odd about him,’ Flora told Will. ‘ I’m going to find out what it is.’

  ‘ Don’t interfere,’ he said. ‘ It’s probably none of your business.’

  ‘But why should he be on the attic floor?’ Flora wondered. ‘And the window—someone had pushed it out. It couldn’t have been anyone else but him; Nelly or Betsy wouldn’t have the strength.’

  It was quiet the next afternoon. Flora should have been counting the linen, but instead she made her way, treading very softly, up the stairs.

  The door was ajar, but she couldn’t remember whether it had been that way when she left the previous day. And then she’d had to tell Cousin Chris that there was no sign of the china shepherdess. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘ I’ve looked everywhere.‘

  ‘It can’t be helped,’ said Cousin Chris, ‘perhaps I put it away in a drawer.’

  ‘I’ll keep looking,’ promised Flora. ‘I brought you a few photos, and there is a trunk…’ She felt a little ashamed of herself as she remember how she had tried to open the trunk and found it firmly locked.

  Chris’s face brightened. ‘Oh, let me see...’ she turned over the photos. ‘I was a young girl when this was taken; and here, do look at this picture of an outing—to Portobello, I think. It’s a group of us from my father’s firm. We had an outing every year to the sea.’

  She turned over the photos happily absorbed.

  After a few moments, she looked up. ‘A trunk, you said?’

  Flora nodded.

  ‘I think,’ said Cousin Chris slowly, ‘as far as I remember there are some clothes—dresses, blouses, that sort of thing. Perhaps you would like to have a look, see if there’s anything that might be useful.’ She got up, a little unsteadily, and reached into the bureau. ‘I expect you found it locked.’

  Flora blushed. ‘Well...’

  ‘Please open it, and see if there are any clothes that haven’t got the moth.’ She dismissed Flora with a wave and went back to studying the photos.

  Cous
in Chris laid down the papers with a hand that was not quite steady. ‘Just a moment,’ she said. ‘Look at this photo.’ She gazed into the distance as if she was seeing things in the past. ‘There’s a story behind it, ‘ she said quietly.

  ‘About you? About your family?‘ Flora was gentle. Suddenly she was aware that this formidable, strong-willed relative was in fact a very old woman who had once been a lively young girl.

  ‘You don’t need to tell me,’ she said, ‘if it’s something private.’

  Chris lifted a faded sepia photograph and handed it without a word to Flora. It showed two young girls, their arms entwined. ‘My sister and I,’ said Chris.

  ‘I didn’t know you had a sister,’ said Flora.

  ‘Agnes. She was two years younger than I was.’ Chris sighed.

  ‘And is she…?’ Flora didn’t know how to put it.

  ‘She died,’ said Chris briefly. ‘Quite young.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ There was a silence. Chris picked up another photo.

  ‘This is the only one I have,’ she said.

  Chapter 9

  Flora looked in amazement at the picture. It showed a young man with curly hair and a moustache. He was wearing a suit, in which he looked rather uncomfortable, and it seemed as if it was a studio photo since there was a background of buildings and tram cars in a city street, clearly a studio backcloth.

  ‘He had that taken specially,’ said Chris.

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘His name was Dougal, Dougal McCrae. He was… almost part of the family, for a while. He came from Aberdeenshire but was in Edinburgh on business.

  ‘Go on,’ said Flora.

  ‘Somehow, I can’t quite remember how, he and my father became close and they would spend hours closeted in the study, talking business, and he would advise Father on investments. My father,’ she added, ‘was generally thought to be a shrewd business man but…’ her voice trailed off. ‘

  ‘What happened?’

  Well, Dougal McCrae persuaded Father to put money into some scheme he had for investing in land in Nova Scotia. He was plausible, and Father believed every word he said. He never asked anyone else for advice, but trusted Dougal implicitly.