Death at the Workhouse

“Mr Torrance has been making complaints,” said my landlady, Mrs Garnett.

“Who’s Mr Torrance?” I asked as I adjusted my hat in the hallway mirror.

“The man who rents the room beneath you.”

“That’s who he is, is it? I didn’t know his name. He’s the man with the large moustache, I assume?”

“Yes. He’s a clerk at one of those law firms. He’s been making complaints about the noise.”

“What noise?”

“From your new typewriting machine.”

I laughed. “It doesn’t make such a terrible noise!”

“He says it’s like the pounding of a dozen tiny hammers.”

“He must have exceptionally good hearing.”

I stepped away from the mirror, and as I did so Mrs Garnett brushed her feather duster over it.

“Apparently, he’s a light sleeper,” she replied. “And you do have a habit of working at that thing until late into the evening.”

“It’s quite often the only time I have.” I had recently acquired my first typewriter and had been busy working on the book I was writing about my father’s life.

“I realise that, Miss Green, but it’s still noisy.”

“Do you also hear it?”

“Yes, I could hear it from his room. Unfortunately, your writing desk is situated just above Mr Torrance’s bed, and the poor man has to rise at five each morning.”

“What would you have me do, Mrs Garnett?”

“There must be some agreed hours of use, and it cannot be late in the evening.”

“But I do my best writing late in the evening!”

“That may be so, but Mr Torrance needs his sleep.”

“Might I try moving my writing desk?” It was a reluctant suggestion, seeing as my desk sat in front of the little window in my garret room, and from there I could enjoy an easterly view over the rooftops of London.

“You could try that, but I doubt it would solve the problem completely. Mr Torrance would still be able to hear your machine.”

“Perhaps he could push some cotton into his ears when he wishes to sleep.”

“We can hardly expect him to go to such absurd lengths, Miss Green.”

“Why not? If he’s a light sleeper, as he claims to be, the cotton will ensure that nothing wakes him up. And besides, we’re situated right beside the railway lines of Moorgate Station! How is it that my typewriter keeps him awake when the trains fail to do so?”

“It’s easy to become accustomed to the noise of the trains, but a typewriter is a different kettle of fish.”

“Most likely because I’ve only recently acquired it. I’m sure he’ll become accustomed to the typewriting noise in time.”

“That’s hardly fair, Miss Green. I think the best solution would be to agree upon a curfew.”

“Ten o’clock?”

“Nine o’clock.”

“But that barely gives me any time at all to do my work in the evenings!”

“Then may I suggest that you discuss this issue directly with Mr Torrance?”

I sighed. “Well, I don’t have time to discuss the matter much further, as I must go to work now. When you see him today, Mrs Garnett, tell him that he has nothing to worry about this evening as I shall be spending the night at the workhouse.”

“The workhouse? Goodness, there’s no need for you to go to such extreme measures in response to his complaint! I’m sure we can reach some sort of compromise. And besides, I shouldn’t think you’d be allowed to take your typewriter in there.”

“You misunderstand me, Mrs Garnett. I’m staying at the workhouse tonight as I shall be writing a piece about it for the Morning Express.”

Mrs Garnett sucked her lip disapprovingly. “I don’t think I’ll ever understand your profession, Miss Green.”