House of Strangers (11 page)

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 herself.

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.’

Flora leaned forward eagerly. ‘Is there anyone special you can remember?’

He looked thoughtful. ‘There were one or two. What was his name again? The lad you’re looking for?’

‘Dougal. Dougal McCrae.’

He shook his head. ‘Can’t say as I recall anyone of that name. There was a Davy—that wouldn’t be him, would it?’

‘I don’t think so. He was tall with fair hair.’

‘No. This was a little chap, played the mouth organ. Every chance he got he’d play his mouth organ. It drove us wild. Always the same tunes over and over again.’

Flora shook her head. ‘It doesn’t sound like him.’

The old man went on. ‘And a girl in every port, or so he said. A proper sailor.’ He chuckled and then began to cough.

‘What happened to him?’ asked Will, seeing that Flora was silent.

‘Now there you’re asking…’ The old man wiped his eyes and looked into the distance as if he was trying to recall events a long time ago.

‘This was a handsome lad, I’ll give you that.’ The old man chuckled. ‘He had a head of red hair, flaming red it was. You could see it from miles away—‘Red’ we called him, because of his hair.’

‘Red hair?’ Flora found her tongue.

‘The reddest you’ve ever seen. I’m not likely to forget that - even if I can’t recall much else.’

‘I don’t suppose,’ said Flora, ‘that he ever mentioned a special girl.’

The old man shook his head. ‘Can’t recall as he did.’

‘Do you know where he came from? Scotland maybe?’ Will prompted.

‘Not him. He was a Cockney, born and bred.’

Will and Flora rose to go and Will pressed a packet of tobacco into the old man’s hand. ‘Thank you for speaking to us.’

Outside the home, Flora leant against the wall. Will put his arm around her. ‘You realise,’ Flora looked up at him, ‘that we’ve been on a wild goose chase, and there is no sign whatsoever of Dougal.’

‘I’m afraid so. What do we do now?’

‘I think we give up. Dougal has disappeared. He’s not on any of the ships’ records, and he doesn’t seem to be on any parish records. It’s a mystery. I don’t think we are going to get any further.’ She looked up at Will, ‘I wish for Chris’s sake we had been able to trace him, but it is a very long time ago. We tried anyway, and,’ she said, ‘I couldn’t have got this far without you. I’m so grateful.’

He put his arms around her. ’It was a pleasure.’ He kissed her gently. ‘I’ve wanted to do that for ages.’

Flora said, a little shakily, ‘I wanted you to—kiss me, I mean.’ Oh, dear, she thought, I don’t know how to talk to men. I haven’t any experience of flirting. But looking up at Will, she knew that she didn’t have to flirt with him. There was no need to pretend.

Chapter 24

‘So,’ Chris said, ‘have you found anything—about Dougal, I mean?’ She began to cough and Flora poured out a glass of water from the carafe that stood on a side table.

‘It’s very hard to try to trace someone all these years ago,’ Flora said, hesitating. How can I tell her? Flora gathered her thoughts. I can’t tell her that there isn’t a croft. That there’s no record in the parish registers. That there never was a farm in Aberdeenshire. That no one remembers Dougal McCrae; he didn’t marry, and there are no children, or any relatives. That he may have sailed as crew on a ship bound for Nova Scotia, but there are no traces of him in any of the ships’ lists. That even an old man who sailed to and fro across the Atlantic doesn’t remember—at least he remembers someone who was a red-haired Cockney, no resemblance at all to Dougal, with his fair hair and height.’

She said, ‘We think he may have sailed for Nova Scotia.’

‘Yes,’ said Chris, coughing again.

‘We won’t give up searching,’ Flora promised, but she thought despairingly, I have no idea where to look. I’ve come to the end of the road. Chris was sitting quietly, gazing into space. Flora looked at her elderly relative, her hands in her lap, her mind full of memories. ‘I wondered,’ she said, hesitating, ‘if you and Dougal… I mean…’

‘You mean,’ said Chris in her forthright way, ‘was I in love with Dougal?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Flora.

‘Goodness no,’ said Chris. She smiled at Flora. ‘In fact, I don’t suppose I ever quite trusted him right from the beginning. I feel I have been rather foolish clinging on to the past. But now I have you in the present day and young people around me. That’s the end of that story. I feel you have gone to a great deal of trouble for me—I am truly grateful. I would have liked to be able to trace him for my father’s sake. But there it is. You have done so much, you and Will.’

She put out her hand and clasped Flora’s wrist. ‘I have been living in the past, as old people do, but the present—and the future—are really much more interesting, even though I am getting on in years. I hope it will be a happy future for you—and for Will. And now my dear, would you ring for Nelly and ask her to bring in tea—though it is a little early. And we might as well use the best china - what is the use of keeping it?

*

Back in the seamen’s hostel, George Wishart puffed at his pipe, enjoying the aroma of a really good tobacco. A grand gift from the young man. A fine couple too. The lass, she was like the young woman he’d courted years ago. A long time since, and she’d made a grand wife.

She’d looked disappointed, he thought, when he’d told her about the red-haired Cockney. Plainly, he was nothing like the lad they were trying to trace. And now… well, memories of the past had gone. He could remember some of the shipmates, and now and then a name would come back to him.

Like that name, Dougal. But there had never been a Dougal. Pity - he wished he could have told that nice young woman something helpful. What were the other mates he could remember? He dredged up a few names. There was a Shorty, and Johnny, and Danny. Yes, now he could just about remember Danny. Or Dan as he insisted on being called. Not that he always answered to Dan—maybe it was because he’d changed his name. Odd sort of chap; sailing to Nova Scotia, he’d said. Going to buy a bit of land there. He’d seemed different somehow, from the rest of the crew, who were a pretty rough lot. Classier, he was, better spoken.

Now he could remember someone asking, ‘And what’ll you do for money, Dan?’ Dan had laughed at that. Oh, he was a sharp one. The old man remembered the night Dan had joined in a card game. And how he’d been caught cheating. There had been a fight he recalled, and Dan had come off best—near killed one of the young crew.

They were wary of him after that.

But now the memory was slipping again. What had happened to Dan? He was a wrong ‘un, George Wishart thought. You could always spot them. Chances were he’d have landed in prison, except that he caught typhoid and died, just before the ship docked. It was a killer then. So he never got to Nova Scotia. Anyway, Dan’s story would have been of no interest to the nice young woman.

His name wasn’t Dougal—was it?