The Couple Next Door: Collected Short Mysteries

Preface by Tom Nolan

People were passing, children were playing on the sidewalk, the sun shone, the palm trees rustled with wind — everything outside seemed normal and human and real. By contrast, the shape of the idea that was forming in the back of his mind was so grotesque and ugly that he wanted to run out of the office, to join the normal people passing on the street below. But he knew he could not escape by running. The idea would follow him, pursue him until he turned around and faced it.

Characters are often forced to confront unpleasant truths in the fiction of Margaret Millar, a writer who, as author Dean James has pointed out, “had the gift of taking the seemingly ordinary routines of daily life and finding the sinister undercurrents just beneath the surface.”

In this story, Mr. Sands — an Inspector no more — discovers sinister and ugly things flourish just as well in the California sunshine as they did in the chill of his native Toronto.

Note

“‘had the gift of taking the seemingly ordinary routines of daily life’”: Dean James commentary on A Stranger in My Grave, from 100 Favorite Mysteries of the Century: Selected by the Independent Mystery Booksellers Association, edited by Jim Huang (Crum Creek Press, 2000).

The Couple Next Door

It was by accident that they lived next door to each other, but by design that they became neighbors — Mr. Sands, who had retired to California after a life of crime investigation, and the Rackhams, Charles and Alma. Rackham was a big, innocent-looking man in his fifties. Except for the accumulation of a great deal of money, nothing much had ever happened to Rackham, and he liked to listen to Sands talk, while Alma sat with her knitting, plump and contented, unimpressed by any tale that had no direct bearing on her own life. She was half Rackham’s age, but the fullness of her figure, and her air of having withdrawn from life quietly and without fuss, gave her the stamp of middle-age.

Two or three times a week Sands crossed the concrete driveway, skirted the eugenia hedge, and pressed the Rackhams’ door chime. He stayed for tea or for dinner, to play gin or scrabble, or just to talk. “That reminds me of a case I had in Toronto,” Sands would say, and Rackham would produce martinis and an expression of intense interest, and Alma would smile tolerantly, as if she didn’t really believe a single thing Sands, or anyone else, ever said.

They made good neighbors: the Rackhams, Charles younger than his years, and Alma older than hers, and Sands who could be any age at all...

It was the last evening of August and through the open window of Sands’ study came the scent of jasmine and the sound of a woman’s harsh, wild weeping.

He thought at first that the Rackhams had a guest, a woman on a crying jag, perhaps, after a quarrel with her husband.

He went out into the front yard to listen, and Rackham came around the hedge, dressed in a bathrobe.

He said, sounding very surprised, “Alma’s crying.”

“I heard.”

“I asked her to stop. I begged her. She won’t tell me what’s the matter.”

“Women have cried before.”

“Not Alma.” Rackham stood on the damp grass, shivering, his forehead streaked with sweat. “What do you think we should do about it?”

The I had become we, because they were good neighbors, and along with the games and the dinners and the scent of jasmine, they shared the sound of a woman’s grief.

“Perhaps you could talk to her,” Rackham said.

“I’ll try.”

“I don’t think there is anything physically the matter with her. We both had a check-up at the Tracy clinic last week. George Tracy is a good friend of mine — he’d have told me if there was anything wrong.”

“I’m sure he would.”

“If anything ever happened to Alma I’d kill myself.”

Alma was crouched in a corner of the davenport in the living room, weeping rhythmically, methodically, as if she had accumulated a hoard of tears and must now spend them all in one night. Her fair skin was blotched with patches of red, like strawberry birthmarks, and her eyelids were blistered from the heat of her tears. She looked like a stranger to Sands, who had never seen her display any emotion stronger than ladylike distress over a broken teacup.

Rackham went over and stroked her hair. “Alma, dear. What is the matter?”

“Nothing... nothing...”

“Mr. Sands is here, Alma. I thought he might be able — we might be able—”

But no one was able. With a long shuddering sob, Alma got up and lurched across the room, hiding her blotched face with her hands. They heard her stumble up the stairs.

Sands said, “I’d better be going.”

“No, please don’t. I... the fact is, I’m scared stiff. Alma’s always been so quiet.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t suppose — there’s no chance she’s losing her mind?”

If they had not been good neighbors Sands might have remarked that Alma had little mind to lose. As it was, he said cautiously, “She might have had bad news, family trouble of some kind.”

“She has no family except me.”

“If you’re worried, perhaps you’d better call your doctor.”

“I think I will.”

George Tracy arrived within half an hour, a slight, fair-haired man in his early thirties, with a smooth unhurried manner that imparted confidence. He talked slowly, moved slowly, as if there was all the time in the world to minister to desperate women.

Rackham chafed with impatience while Tracy removed his coat, placed it carefully across the back of the chair, and discussed the weather with Sands.

“It’s a beautiful evening,” Tracy said, and Alma’s moans sliding down the stairs distorted his words, altered their meaning: a terrible evening, an awful evening. “There’s a touch of fall in the air. You live in these parts, Mr. Sands?”

“Next door.”

“For heaven’s sake, George,” Rackham said, “will you hurry up? For all you know, Alma might be dying.”

“That I doubt. People don’t die as easily as you might imagine. She’s in her room?”

“Yes. Now will you please—”

“Take it easy, old man.”

Tracy picked up his medical bag and went towards the stairs, leisurely, benign.

“He’s always like that.” Rackham turned to Sands, scowling. “Exasperating son-of-a-gun. You can bet that if he had a wife in Alma’s condition he’d be taking those steps three at a time.”

“Who knows? — perhaps he has.”

“I know,” Rackham said crisply. “He’s not even married. Never had time for it, he told me. He doesn’t look it but he’s very ambitious.”

“Most doctors are.”

“Tracy is, anyway.”

Rackham mixed a pitcher of martinis, and the two men sat in front of the unlit fire, waiting and listening. The noises from upstairs gradually ceased, and pretty soon the doctor came down again.

Rackham rushed across the room to meet him. “How is she?”

“Sleeping. I gave her a hypo.”

“Did you talk to her? Did you ask her what was the matter?”

“She was in no condition to answer questions.”

“Did you find anything wrong with her?”

“Not physically. She’s a healthy young woman.”

“Not physically. Does that mean—?”

“Take it easy, old man.”

Rackham was too concerned with Alma to notice Tracy’s choice of words, but Sands noticed, and wondered if it had been conscious or unconscious: Alma’s a healthy young woman... Take it easy, old man.

“If she’s still depressed in the morning,” Tracy said, “bring her down to the clinic with you when you come in for your X-rays. We have a good neurologist on our staff.” He reached for his coat and hat. “By the way, I hope you followed the instructions?”

Rackham looked at him stupidly. “What instructions?”

“Before we can take specific X-rays, certain medication is necessary.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I made it very clear to Alma,” Tracy said, sounding annoyed. “You were to take one ounce of sodium phosphate after dinner tonight, and report to the X-ray department at 8 o’clock tomorrow morning without breakfast.”

“She didn’t tell me.”

“Oh.”

“It must have slipped her mind.”

“Yes. Obviously. Well, it’s too late now.” He put on his coat, moving quickly for the first time, as if he were in a rush to get away. The change made Sands curious. He wondered why Tracy was suddenly so anxious to leave, and whether there was any connection between Alma’s hysteria and her lapse of memory about Rackham’s X-rays. He looked at Rackham and guessed, from his pallor and his worried eyes, that Rackham had already made a connection in his mind.

“I understood,” Rackham said carefully, “that I was all through at the clinic. My heart, lungs, metabolism — everything fit as a fiddle.”

“People,” Tracy said, “are not fiddles. Their tone doesn’t improve with age. I will make another appointment for you and send you specific instructions by mail. Is that all right with you?”

“I guess it will have to be.”

“Well, good night, Mr. Sands, pleasant meeting you.” And to Rackham, “Good night, old man.”

When he had gone, Rackham leaned against the wall, breathing hard. Sweat crawled down the sides of his face like worms and hid in the collar of his bathrobe. “You’ll have to forgive me, Sands. I feel — I’m not feeling very well.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes,” Rackham said. “Turn back the clock.”

“Beyond my powers, I’m afraid.”

“Yes... Yes, I’m afraid.”

“Good night, Rackham.” Good night, old man.

“Good night, Sands.” Good night old man to you, too.

From his study Sands could see the lighted windows of Rackham’s bedroom. Rackham’s shadow moved back and forth behind the blinds as if seeking escape from the very light that gave it existence. Back and forth, in search of nirvana.

Sands read until far into the night. It was one of the solaces of growing old — if the hours were numbered, at least fewer of them need be wasted in sleep. When he went to bed, Rackham’s bedroom light was still on.

They had become good neighbors by design; now, also by design, they became strangers. Whose design it was, Alma’s or Rackham’s, Sands didn’t know.

There was no definite break, no unpleasantness. But the eugenia hedge seemed to have grown taller and thicker, and the concrete driveway a mile away. He saw the Rackhams occasionally; they waved or smiled or said, “Lovely weather,” over the backyard fence. But Rackham’s smile was thin and painful, Alma waved with a leaden arm, and neither of them cared about the weather. They stayed indoors most of the time, and when they did come out they were always together, arm in arm, walking slowly and in step. It was impossible to tell whose step led, and whose followed.

At the end of the first week in September, Sands met Alma by accident in a drug store downtown. It was the first time since the night of the doctor’s visit that he’d seen either of the Rackhams alone.

She was waiting at the prescription counter wearing a flowery print dress that emphasized the fullness of her figure and the bovine expression of her face. A drug-store length away, she looked like a rather dull, badly dressed young woman with a passion for starchy foods, and it was hard to understand what Rackham had seen in her. But then Rackham had never stood a drug-store length away from Alma; he saw her only in close-up, the surprising, intense blue of her eyes, and the color and texture of her skin, like whipped cream. Sands wondered whether it was her skin and eyes, or her quality of serenity which had appealed most to Rackham, who was quick and nervous and excitable.

She said, placidly, “Why, hello there.”

“Hello, Alma.”

“Lovely weather, isn’t it?”

“Yes... How is Charles?”

“You must come over for dinner one of these nights.”

“I’d like to.”

“Next week, perhaps. I’ll give you a call — I must run now. Charles is waiting for me. See you next week.”

But she did not run, she walked; and Charles was not waiting for her, he was waiting for Sands. He had let himself into Sands’ house and was pacing the floor of the study, smoking a cigarette. His color was bad, and he had lost weight, but he seemed to have acquired an inner calm. Sands could not tell whether it was the calm of a man who had come to an important decision, or that of a man who had reached the end of his rope and had stopped struggling.

They shook hands, firmly, pressing the past week back into shape.

Rackham said, “Nice to see you again, old man.”

“I’ve been here all along.”

“Yes. Yes, I know... I had things to do, a lot of thinking to do.”

“Sit down. I’ll make you a drink.”

“No, thanks. Alma will be home shortly, I must be there.”

Like a Siamese twin, Sands thought, separated by a miracle, but returning voluntarily to the fusion — because the fusion was in a vital organ.

“I understand,” Sands said.

Rackham shook his head. “No one can understand, really, but you come very close sometimes, Sands. Very close.” His cheeks flushed, like a boy’s. “I’m not good at words or expressing my emotions, but I wanted to thank you before we leave, and tell you how much Alma and I have enjoyed your companionship.”

“You’re taking a trip?”

“Yes. Quite a long one.”

“When are you leaving?”

“Today.”

“You must let me see you off at the station.”

“No, no,” Rackham said quickly. “I couldn’t think of it. I hate last-minute depot farewells. That’s why I came over this afternoon to say good-bye.”

“Tell me something of your plans.”

“I would if I had any. Everything is rather indefinite. I’m not sure where we’ll end up.”

“I’d like to hear from you now and then.”

“Oh, you’ll hear from me, of course.” Rackham turned away with an impatient twitch of his shoulders as if he was anxious to leave, anxious to start the trip right now before anything happened to prevent it.

“I’ll miss you both,” Sands said. “We’ve had a lot of laughs together.”

Rackham scowled out of the window. “Please, no farewell speeches. They might shake my decision. My mind is already made up. I want no second thoughts.”

“Very well.”

“I must go now. Alma will be wondering—”

“I saw Alma earlier this afternoon,” Sands said.

“Oh?”

“She invited me for dinner next week.”

Outside the open window two hummingbirds fought and fussed, darting with crazy accuracy in and out of the bougainvillea vine.

“Alma,” Rackham said carefully, “can be very forgetful sometimes.”

“Not that forgetful. She doesn’t know about this trip you’ve planned, does she?... Does she, Rackham?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise. She’s always had a desire to see the world. She’s still young enough to believe that one place is different from any other place... You and I know better.”

“Do we?”

“Good-bye, Sands.”

At the front door they shook hands again, and Rackham again promised to write, and Sands promised to answer his letters. Then Rackham crossed the lawn and the concrete driveway, head bent, shoulders hunched. He didn’t look back as he turned the corner of the eugenia hedge.

Sands went over to his desk, looked up a number in the telephone directory, and dialed.

A girl’s voice answered, “Tracy clinic, X-ray department.”

“This is Charles Rackham,” Sands said.

“Yes, Mr. Rackham.”

“I’m leaving town unexpectedly. If you’ll tell me the amount of my bill I’ll send you a check before I go.”

“The bill hasn’t gone through, but the standard price for a lower gastro-intestinal is twenty-five dollars.”

“Let’s see. I had that done on the—”

“The fifth. Yesterday.”

“But my original appointment was for the first, wasn’t it?”

The girl gave a does-it-really-matter sigh. “Just a minute, sir, and I’ll check.” Half a minute later she was back on the line. “We have no record of an appointment for you on the first, sir.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Even without the record book, I’d be sure. The first was a Monday. We do only gall bladders on Monday.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

Sands went out and got into his car. Before he pulled away from the curb he looked over at Rackham’s house and saw Rackham pacing up and down the veranda, waiting for Alma.

The Tracy clinic was less impressive than Sands had expected, a converted two-story stucco house with a red tile roof. Some of the tiles were broken and the whole building needed paint, but the furnishings inside were smart and expensive.

At the reception desk a nurse wearing a crew cut and a professional smile told Sands that Dr. Tracy was booked solid for the entire afternoon. The only chance of seeing him was to sit in the second-floor waiting room and catch him between patients.

Sands went upstairs and took a chair in a little alcove at the end of the hall, near Tracy’s door. He sat with his face half hidden behind an open magazine. After a while the door of Tracy’s office opened and over the top of his magazine Sands saw a woman silhouetted in the door frame — a plump, fair-haired young woman in a flowery print dress.

Tracy followed her into the hall and the two of them stood looking at each other in silence. Then Alma turned and walked away, passing Sands without seeing him because her eyes were blind with tears.

Sands stood up. “Dr. Tracy?”

Tracy turned sharply, surprise and annoyance pinching the corners of his mouth. “Well? Oh, it’s Mr. Sands.”

“May I see you a moment?”

“I have quite a full schedule this afternoon.”

“This is an emergency.”

“Very well. Come in.”

They sat facing each other across Tracy’s desk.

“You look pretty fit,” Tracy said with a wry smile, “for an emergency case.”

“The emergency is not mine. It may be yours.”

“If it’s mine, I’ll handle it alone, without the help of a poli — I’ll handle it myself.”

Sands leaned forward. “Alma has told you, then, that I used to be a policeman.”

“She mentioned it in passing.”

“I saw Alma leave a few minutes ago... She’d be quite a nice-looking woman if she learned to dress properly.”

“Clothes are not important in a woman,” Tracy said, with a slight flush. “Besides, I don’t care to discuss my patients.”

“Alma is a patient of yours?”

“Yes.”

“Since the night Rackham called you when she was having hysterics?”

“Before then.”

Sands got up, went to the window, and looked down at the street.

People were passing, children were playing on the sidewalk, the sun shone, the palm trees rustled with wind — everything outside seemed normal and human and real. By contrast, the shape of the idea that was forming in the back of his mind was so grotesque and ugly that he wanted to run out of the office, to join the normal people passing on the street below. But he knew he could not escape by running. The idea would follow him, pursue him until he turned around and faced it.

It moved inside his brain like a vast wheel, and in the middle of the wheel, impassive, immobile, was Alma.

Tracy’s harsh voice interrupted the turning of the wheel. “Did you come here to inspect my view, Mr. Sands?”

“Let’s say, instead, your viewpoint.”

“I’m a busy man. You’re wasting my time.”

“No. I’m giving you time.”

“To do what?”

“Think things over.”

“If you don’t leave my office immediately, I’ll have you thrown out.” Tracy glanced at the telephone but he didn’t reach for it, and there was no conviction in his voice.

“Perhaps you shouldn’t have let me in. Why did you?”

“I thought you might make a fuss if I didn’t.”

“Fusses aren’t in my line.” Sands turned from the window. “Liars are, though.”

“What are you implying?”

“I’ve thought a great deal about that night you came to the Rackhams’ house. In retrospect, the whole thing appeared too pat; too contrived: Alma had hysterics and you were called to treat her. Natural enough, so far.”

Tracy stirred but didn’t speak.

“The interesting part came later. You mentioned casually to Rackham that he had an appointment for some X-rays to be taken the following day, September the first. It was assumed that Alma had forgotten to tell him. Only Alma hadn’t forgotten. There was nothing to forget. I checked with your X-ray department half an hour ago. They have no record of any appointment for Rackham on September the first.”

“Records get lost.”

“This record wasn’t lost. It never existed. You lied to Rackham. The lie itself wasn’t important, it was the kind of lie. I could have understood a lie of vanity, or one to avoid punishment or to gain profit. But this seemed such a silly, senseless, little lie. It worried me. I began to wonder about Alma’s part in the scene that night. Her crying was most unusual for a woman of Alma’s inert nature. What if her crying was also a lie? And what was to be gained by it?”

“Nothing,” Tracy said wearily. “Nothing was gained.”

“But something was intended — and I think I know what it was. The scene was played to worry Rackham, to set him up for an even bigger scene. If that next scene has already been played, I am wasting my time here. Has it?”

“You have a vivid imagination.”

“No. The plan was yours — I only figured it out.”

“Very poor figuring, Mr. Sands.” But Tracy’s face was gray, as if mold had grown over his skin.

“I wish it were. I had become quite fond of the Rackhams.”

He looked down at the street again, seeing nothing but the wheel turning inside his head. Alma was no longer in the middle of the wheel, passive and immobile; she was revolving with the others — Alma and Tracy and Rackham, turning as the wheel turned, clinging to its perimeter.

Alma, devoted wife, a little on the dull side... What sudden passion of hate or love had made her capable of such consummate deceit? Sands imagined the scene the morning after Tracy’s visit to the house. Rackham, worried and exhausted after a sleepless night: “Are you feeling better now, Alma?”

“Yes.”

“What made you cry like that?”

“I was worried.”

“About me?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about my X-ray appointment?”

“I couldn’t. I was frightened. I was afraid they would discover something serious the matter with you.”

“Did Tracy give you any reason to think that?”

“He mentioned something about a blockage. Oh, Charles, I’m scared! If anything ever happened to you, I’d die. I couldn’t live without you!”

For an emotional and sensitive man like Rackham, it was a perfect set-up: his devoted wife was frightened to the point of hysterics, his good friend and physician had given her reason to be frightened. Rackham was ready for the next step...

“According to the records in your X-ray department,” Sands said, “Rackham had a lower gastrointestinal X-ray yesterday morning. What was the result?”

“Medical ethics forbid me to—”

“You can’t hide behind a wall of medical ethics that’s already full of holes. What was the result?”

There was a long silence before Tracy spoke. “Nothing.”

“You found nothing the matter with him?”

“That’s right.”

“Have you told Rackham that?”

“He came in earlier this afternoon, alone.”

“Why alone?”

“I didn’t want Alma to hear what I had to say.”

“Very considerate of you.”

“No, it was not considerate,” Tracy said dully. “I had decided to back out of our — our agreement — and I didn’t want her to know just yet.”

“The agreement was to lie to Rackham, convince him that he had a fatal disease?”

“Yes.”

“Did you?”

“No. I showed him the X-rays, I made it clear that there was nothing wrong with him... I tried. I tried my best. It was no use.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wouldn’t believe me! He thought I was trying to keep the real truth from him.” Tracy drew in his breath sharply. “It’s funny, isn’t it? — after days of indecision and torment I made up my mind to do the right thing. But it was too late. Alma had played her role too well. She’s the only one Rackham will believe.”

The telephone on Tracy’s desk began to ring but he made no move to answer it, and pretty soon the ringing stopped and the room was quiet again.

Sands said, “Have you asked Alma to tell him the truth?”

“Yes, just before you came in.”

“She refused?”

Tracy didn’t answer.

“She wants him to think he is fatally ill?”

“I — yes.”

“In the hope that he’ll kill himself, perhaps?”

Once again Tracy was silent. But no reply was necessary.

“I think Alma miscalculated,” Sands said quietly. “Instead of planning suicide, Rackham is planning a trip. But before he leaves, he’s going to hear the truth — from you and from Alma.” Sands went towards the door. “Come on, Tracy. You have a house call to make.”

“No, I can’t.” Tracy grasped the desk with both hands, like a child resisting the physical force of removal by a parent. “I won’t go.”

“You have to.”

“No! Rackham will ruin me if he finds out. That’s how this whole thing started. We were afraid, Alma and I, afraid of what Rackham would do if she asked him for a divorce. He’s crazy in love with her, he’s obsessed!”

“And so are you?”

“Not the way he is. Alma and I both want the same things — a little peace, a little quiet together. We are alike in many ways.”

“That I can believe,” Sands said grimly. “You want the same things, a little peace, a little quiet — and a little of Rackham’s money?”

“The money was secondary.”

“A very close second. How did you plan on getting it?”

Tracy shook his head from side to side, like an animal in pain. “You keep referring to plans, ideas, schemes. We didn’t start out with plans or schemes. We just fell in love. We’ve been in love for nearly a year, not daring to do anything about it because I knew how Rackham would react if we told him. I have worked hard to build up this clinic; Rackham could destroy it, and me, within a month.”

“That’s a chance you’ll have to take. Come on, Tracy.”

Sands opened the door and the two men walked down the hall, slowly and in step, as if they were handcuffed together.

A nurse in uniform met them at the top of the stairs. “Dr. Tracy, are you ready for your next—?”

“Cancel all my appointments, Miss Leroy.”

“But that’s imposs—”

“I have a very important house call to make.”

“Will it take long?”

“I don’t know.”

The two men went down the stairs, past the reception desk, and out into the summer afternoon. Before he got into Sands’ car, Tracy looked back at the clinic, as if he never expected to see it again.

Sands turned on the ignition and the car sprang forward.

After a time Tracy said, “Of all the people in the world who could have been at the Rackhams’ that night, it had to be an ex-policeman.”

“It’s lucky for you that I was.”

“Lucky.” Tracy let out a harsh little laugh. “What’s lucky about financial ruin?”

“It’s better than some other kinds of ruin. If your plan had gone through, you could never have felt like a decent man again.”

“You think I will anyway?”

“Perhaps, as the years go by.”

“The years.” Tracy turned, with a sigh. “What are you going to tell Rackham?”

“Nothing. You will tell him yourself.”

“I can’t. You don’t understand. I’m quite fond of Rackham, and so is Alma. We — it’s hard to explain.”

“Even harder to understand.” Sands thought back to all the times he had seen the Rackhams together and envied their companionship, their mutual devotion. Never, by the slightest glance or gesture of impatience or slip of the tongue, had Alma indicated that she was passionately in love with another man. He recalled the games of scrabble, the dinners, the endless conversations with Rackham, while Alma sat with her knitting, her face reposeful, content. Rackham would ask, “Don’t you want to play, too, Alma?” And she would reply, “No, thank you, dear, I’m quite happy with my thoughts.”

Alma, happy with her thoughts of violent delights and violent ends.

Sands said, “Alma is equally in love with you?”

“Yes.” He sounded absolutely convinced. “No matter what Rackham says or does, we intend to have each other.”

“I see.”

The blinds of the Rackham house were closed against the sun. Sands led the way up the veranda steps and pressed the door chime, while Tracy stood, stony-faced and erect, like a bill collector or a process server.

Sands could hear the chimes pealing inside the house and feel their vibrations beating under his feet.

He said, “They may have gone already.”

“Gone where?”

“Rackham wouldn’t tell me. He just said he was planning the trip as a surprise for Alma.”

“He can’t take her away! He can’t force her to leave if she doesn’t want to go!”

Sands pressed the door chime again, and called out, “Rackham? Alma?” But there was no response.

He wiped the sudden moisture off his forehead with his coat sleeve. “I’m going in.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No.”

The door was unlocked. He stepped into the empty hall and shouted up the staircase, “Alma? Rackham? Are you there?”

The echo of his voice teased him from the dim corners.

Tracy had come into the hall. “They’ve left, then?”

“Perhaps not. They might have just gone out for a drive. It’s a nice day for a drive.”

“Is it?”

“Go around to the back and see if their car’s in the garage.”

When Tracy had gone, Sands closed the door behind him and shot the bolt. He stood for a moment listening to Tracy’s nervous footsteps on the concrete driveway. Then he turned and walked slowly into the living room, knowing the car would be in the garage, no matter how nice a day it was for a drive.

The drapes were pulled tight across the windows and the room was cool and dark, but alive with images and noisy with the past:

“I wanted to thank you before we leave, Sands”

“You’re taking a trip?”

“Yes, quite a long one”

“When are you leaving?”

“Today.”

“You must let me see you off at the station...”

But no station had been necessary for Rackham’s trip. He lay in front of the fireplace in a pool of blood, and beside him was his companion on the journey, her left arm curving around his waist.

Rackham had kept his promise to write. The note was on the mantel, addressed not to Sands, but to Tracy.

Sands put the note back on the mantel. He stood quietly, his heart pierced by the final splinter of irony: before Rackham had used the gun on himself, he had lain down on the floor beside Alma and placed her dead arm lovingly around his waist.

From outside came the sound of Tracy’s footsteps and then the pounding of his fists on the front door.

“Sands, I’m locked out. Open the door. Let me in! Sands, do you hear me? Open this door!”

Sands went and opened the door.