“Victor, forgive me,” she said, her voice calm yet somehow different—unfamiliar. “I couldn’t do it any other way.”
“Impossible! You’ve lost your mind, Gwendoline!” Victor slammed a bundle of keys onto the table, the clatter ringing against the porcelain biscuit jar. “Margaret would never have done this! She would have called!”
“And what do you think I’ve been telling you?!” Gwendoline leapt from the sofa, her shawl slipping from her silver-streaked hair. “She left last evening for the chemist’s to fetch your blood pressure tablets—and that was it! Vanished without a trace! I haven’t slept a wink, ringing every hospital, filing reports at the police station!”
Victor sank heavily into his armchair, rubbing his face with his hands. His sister-in-law had always been high-strung, but now she looked truly shattered—eyes bloodshot from sleeplessness, hands trembling.
“Gwen, calm yourself. Perhaps she stopped by a friend’s? Remember last month when young Timothy from the Johnsons fell ill, and Margaret stayed the night with them?”
“I’ve rung everyone!” Gwendoline choked back a sob. “The Johnsons, Mrs. Whitby from the next building, even Laura from the surgery. No one’s seen hide nor hair of her! Victor, she never just disappears without a word!”
It was true. Margaret Spencer, Victor’s sister, lived a life of quiet routine. Breakfast at seven, then off to the children’s clinic where she’d worked as a nurse for twenty years. Evenings were for errands, supper, telly. Weekends meant cleaning, laundry, and the occasional visit to Gwendoline’s for tea and neighbourhood gossip.
“Did you ask at the chemist’s?” Victor stood, moving to the window. Children played in the courtyard below, their laughter suddenly grating. How could they carry on as if nothing were amiss?
“Of course! The pharmacist, Miss Carter, said she saw her around eight. Margaret bought your tablets and something for a cough. And after that—” Gwendoline’s hands fluttered helplessly. “After that, no one saw her again.”
Victor fell silent, trying to piece together the previous evening. He’d dined alone—Margaret had said she was just nipping out for his medicine. She’d thrown on her blue mac, the one she’d bought on sale last autumn, grabbed her handbag and keys.
“Shan’t be long, Vic,” she’d called from the hall. “Mind the soup doesn’t burn.”
Those were the last words she’d spoken in that house.
He waited till nine, then ten. He’d turned off the soup himself, eaten a cold supper, watched the news. By half past ten, unease had settled in, but he told himself she must’ve stopped to chat with an acquaintance. Rare, but not unheard of.
At dawn, Gwendoline’s frantic call woke him.
“Victor, was Margaret with you last night?”
“What d’you mean? She lives here.”
“But she never came home! Her bed’s untouched, her handbag’s still here. I thought perhaps she’d stayed with you—”
That was when Victor knew something was terribly wrong.
“Listen, Gwen—could she have… met someone?” he ventured weakly. “Margaret’s only forty-seven. Still young.”
Gwendoline scoffed. “Oh, don’t be daft! Your sister’s never looked twice at a man since that divorce with Geoffrey. How many times have I nudged her to join the village dance nights? But no—always too busy, too tired, never the right time.”
“People don’t just vanish!” Victor’s chest tightened with dread. “Something must’ve happened.”
“That’s what I’m saying!” Gwendoline seized his sleeve. “What if she was robbed? Attacked? Remember Mrs. Hargreaves from number twelve had her purse snatched last month?”
“Then she’d be in hospital or at the station. You said you checked everywhere.”
“I did! And do you know what they told me? That adults have a right to go where they please! That missing persons reports can’t be filed for three whole days! Three days, Victor! What if—”
She didn’t finish. Neither needed to.
The doorbell rang. Gwendoline sprang up, hope flashing across her face.
“Margaret?” she cried, fumbling with the latch.
On the doorstep stood Mrs. Clarke from downstairs, a shopping bag in hand.
“Gwendoline, dear—whatever’s the matter? Heard you crying last night, and now raised voices—”
“Margaret’s gone,” Gwendoline said flatly. “Left last evening and never returned.”
Mrs. Clarke gasped, setting her bag down. “Good heavens! But I saw her yesterday! Around half seven—she was coming down the stairs as I went up. We said hello, she mentioned hurrying to the chemist’s.”
“And that’s all? Nothing else?”
“Nothing out of the ordinary. Though…” Mrs. Clarke frowned. “She did seem… different. Not sad, not cheerful, just… resolved. You know how people look when they’ve made up their mind about something?”
Victor and Gwendoline exchanged glances. What decision could Margaret have made? She was never impulsive—every choice weighed thrice over.
“Nothing amiss at work, perhaps?” Mrs. Clarke suggested. “Heard there might be layoffs at the clinic.”
“No.” Gwendoline shook her head. “Margaret’s been there twenty years—she’d be the last they’d let go. Just last week she was telling me about training the new nurse—Emily, I think—fresh out of college.”
Victor recalled his sister speaking of the girl—bright but impatient, wanting everything at once.
“Life’s long enough for all of it,” Margaret had said.
Now those words rang hollow.
Mrs. Clarke left, promising to ask the neighbours. Victor and Gwendoline were alone again.
“Let’s go to her flat,” Victor said. “Might find a note, some clue—”
“I’ve turned the place upside down!” Gwendoline waved a hand. “Not a scrap out of place—everything neat as a pin.”
But Victor insisted. Margaret’s flat was just next door, on the third floor. Gwendoline unlocked the door—they’d exchanged spare keys years ago.
The flat was silent, immaculate. Shoes lined up in the hall, coat on the peg. African violets on the sill—Margaret’s pride, tended like children.
“See?” Gwendoline gestured to the desk. “Just as I said. Passport here, savings book, even her purse. Only twenty quid in it, but still—”
Victor opened a drawer, retrieving Margaret’s address book. Numbers for colleagues, doctors, friends—the ordinary contacts of an ordinary woman.
“What’s this?” He pointed to a slip of paper tucked beneath the telephone directory.
Gwendoline unfolded it—a leaflet from a travel agency. “Yorkshire Dales & Historic Towns. Coach tours departing weekly.”
“Since when did Margaret fancy trips?” Gwendoline frowned. “Never travelled further than Aunt Eleanor’s in Devon.”
“Could’ve been posted through the door.”
“Maybe. But look—someone’s written on it.”
In the margin, pencilled faintly: “York—15th May.”
“That’s tomorrow,” Gwendoline whispered. “Victor, do you think she—”
“I don’t know what to think,” he admitted. “But why tell no one?”
In the kitchen, two plates sat on the table—one clean, the other with toast crumbs. A newspaper lay open to the classifieds.
“She had breakfast here,” Gwendoline observed. “Read the paper. Same as always.”
Victor scanned the ads—flats for let, job listings, personals. Then he froze. One entry was circled in red: “Gentleman, 52, widower, seeks lady for companionship. Values honesty, kindness, quiet evenings in.”
“Gwen, look.”
“Can’t be.” Gwendoline shook her head. “Not Margaret. Always said she’d rather be alone than settle.”
“Then why mark it?”
“Maybe for someone else? Mrs. Whitby’s been lonely since her husband passed—”
Victor pocketed the paper. Something didn’t add up.
That evening, he rang the tour company.
“Yes, we’ve a York tour tomorrow,” the clerk confirmed. “But fully booked. Last seat sold yesterday evening.”
“Could you say who bought it?”
“Sorry, confidential. Paid in cash, though.”
“Don’t recall a woman in her forties? Medium height, dark hair, blue mac?”
“Sir, we had dozens in yesterday—is there a problem?”
Victor hung up.
Next morning, he stood outside the travel agency, watching passengers board the coach. Departure at nine sharp.
Margaret wasn’t among them.
“All aboard?” called the guide, a young man in a fleece jacket.
“One missing,” said the clerk. “Paid but no-show. Pity—no refunds.”
Victor approached. “Who didn’t come?”
“A
