Margaret Peterson was Manchester’s premier neighbourhood sleuth. She knew exactly who owed council fees, who had marital spats, and whose teenager missed curfew. Yet the woman on the fifth floor remained a perfect mystery.
She’d slipped into Flat 53 almost invisibly. Margaret recalled the place gathering dust after old Stan Johnson passed on. His nephews from Bristol popped by occasionally, cleared it out eventually, and sold it. To whom? Nobody really knew.
“Probably estate agents,” mused Valerie Stevens, Margaret’s neighbour, as they collected their post downstairs. “Flats change hands like penny stocks these days.”
But soon, music drifted faintly from above. The distinct *click-clack* of proper high heels echoed on the stairs – a rare sound in their crumbling building with its wheezy lift.
Margaret caught her first glimpse purely by chance. Peeking through her door’s spy-hole at voices outside, she froze. Opposite stood a striking woman in a smart taupe coat, her hair elegantly coiled, clutching white roses.
“Thanks ever so much,” the stranger was saying to a middle-aged chap in a sharp suit. “I’ll certainly pass them along.”
The man nodded silently and headed for the lift. The woman stood a moment longer, sighed at the flowers, and vanished inside.
“Val!” Margaret cornered Valerie by the benches downstairs the next day. “Have you clocked the new neighbour?”
“Which?”
“Fifth floor. Fifty-three.”
Valerie shook her head. “Haven’t laid eyes on her. Young?”
“Not really. Forty-five, maybe fifty. Smart-looking, very polished. Dresses rather well, unlike the lot of us.”
“Must have money,” Valerie concluded. “Buying central Manchester? Pricey.”
Margaret agreed, yet something niggled. The genuinely wealthy usually favoured new builds, not creaky blocks with peeling wallpaper and temperamental lifts.
Margaret noted the fifth-floor flat seemed popular – exclusively with gentlemen callers, always bearing flowers. Different times: mornings, lunches, evenings. Stays varied – twenty minutes, sometimes over an hour. All impeccably dressed, all radiating confidence.
“Maybe she’s an artist?” Valerie suggested after hearing Margaret’s report. “Or musician? They know loads of people.”
“An *artist* with that kind of money?” Margaret snorted sceptically. “Ever met a rich painter?”
Valerie shrugged, conceding the point.
Margaret’s curiosity grew daily. She’d linger by the bins hoping for a glimpse, straining to hear footsteps above. But the neighbour remained elusive, seeming to vanish mid-step.
The truth emerged unexpectedly. Margaret grumped home from the GP surgery after a fruitless queue. In the lift, she met Gary the caretaker, toolbox in hand.
“Alright, Mrs P?” Gary greeted her.
“Hello, Gary. Off to?”
“Fifth floor, tap’s dripping. Had a call.”
Margaret perked up. “Number fifty-three?”
“Yeah. Nice lady that lives there. Always offers tea and biscuits. Pays extra too, mind.”
“Go on? What’s she like?”
Gary scratched his head. “Proper lady. Polite. Bit melancholy-like, though. Lives alone.”
“How alone? Men are always popping round!”
Gary looked baffled. “What men? I’ve been five times – never seen hide nor hair of a bloke. Just her.”
Margaret pondered. Was Gary fibbing? Or was she missing something? Perhaps the neighbour hid visitors.
A week later, Margaret collided with the mystery woman in Tesco, studying a yoghurt pot near the milk.
“Excuse me,” Margaret ventured. “You’re from our building? Margaret Peterson, fourth floor.”
The neighbour looked up. Close up, she was even lovelier – fine features, expressive brown eyes, clear skin. But those eyes held a profound weariness and sorrow that startled Margaret.
“Yes, I remember you,” she said softly. “Eleanor Williams. Pleasure.”
“Settling in alright? Decent flat old Stan kept.”
“Thank you, fine. Peaceful.”
Eleanor clearly wasn’t chatty, but Margaret pressed on. “Working somewhere? Or retired?”
“Working,” Eleanor replied curtly, turning to the cottage cheese.
Margaret retreated, more puzzled than ever.
At home, she rang Valerie. “Val, I spoke to her! Eleanor Williams.”
“And?”
“Nothing concrete! Secretive! And heartbreakingly sad.”
“Husband pass? Messy divorce?”
“Dunno. But things don’t add up. Gary says she’s always alone; I *see* men visiting.”
Valerie paused. “Mar, you don’t think… maybe…”
“Think what?”
“Well, men visiting, money… lives alone…”
Margaret gasped. “Valerie Stevens! How could you! She’s classy, educated!”
“Educated folk need to eat too,” Valerie countered. “Job loss? Pension pinch?”
The shocking idea rattled Margaret. It explained the flowers, money, secrecy… yet Eleanor seemed so respectable.
That evening, Margaret heard muffled weeping through the wall. Heart-wrenching. She almost knocked.
The next day, she met Eleanor trudging downstairs with a heavy bag, pale with shadows under her eyes.
“Eleanor,” Margaret called. “Need help?”
Eleanor stopped, surprised. “Thank you, no.”
“Let me! Looks a proper load.”
After a hesitation, Eleanor sighed. “Alright. Ta.”
They descended silently. Outside, Eleanor paused. “Margaret, could I ask a favour?”
“Course!”
“If anyone comes asking for me… Could you say I’m not home?”
“Alright,” Margaret agreed, baffled. “Who might ask?”
“Various people,” Eleanor said vaguely. “Just say you don’t know.”
The visits ceased abruptly. Eleanor became near-invisible, moving silently.
Weeks passed. Margaret had nearly forgotten the puzzle when the doorbell rang. A fiftyish man stood there in a Savile Row suit, holding crimson roses.
“Pardon,” he said politely. “Is Eleanor Williams home?”
Margaret recalled her promise. “No. She’s away.”
His face clouded. “When’s she back?”
“Not sure. Been gone a while.”
He hovered, then offered the flowers. “Will you accept these, please? From Michael Adams. Ask her to ring me. Urgently.”
Margaret took the roses, promising to deliver them – unsure when she’d see Eleanor again.
The chance came the next evening. Eleanor arrived clutching an office folder, looking weary.
“Eleanor!” Margaret hailed her. “Someone came yesterday.”
Eleanor froze, visibly paling. “Who?”
“A Mr Michael Adams. Left these.” Margaret handed over the roses. “Begged you’d call.”
Eleanor took them, hands trembling. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Eleanor,” Margaret started gently. “If you’re in trouble… need help…”
Eleanor looked up, eyes brimming. “It’s fine. Simply… I can’t live like this.” She vanished into the lift.
Margaret stood bewildered.
The answer arrived brutally a week later. An ambulance screeched onto their street. Margaret rushed onto her balcony. Paramedics emerged carrying a stretcher bearing Eleanor – alarmingly pale, unnaturally still.
“What
Margaret Peters made a fresh pot of tea and silently decided that being a bit nosy wasn’t always terrible, especially when it meant you might actually be a friend when one was desperately needed.
