The Black House Read Free

ask?”
    Michael had tried to prepare for this. “I read somewhere in a newspaper that people do sometimes—just disappear, even in small villages like this. Drift away, change their names or some such. Baffles everyone, where they go.” Michael was drifting away himself. Not a good job, but the question was put.
    He walked the quarter of a mile back home, wishing he had had the guts to ask Mary if anyone in the area had a bandaged left hand, or if she’d heard of any such accident. Mary had boyfriends who frequented the local pub. Mary this minute might know of a man with a bandaged hand, but Michael could not possibly tell Mary that the missing fingers were in his garage.
    The matter of what to do with the fingers was put aside for that morning, as the Herberts had laid on a drive to Cambridge, followed by lunch at the house of a don who was a friend of the Herberts. Unthinkable to cancel that because of getting involved with the police, so the fingers did not come up that morning in conversation. They talked of anything else during the drive. Michael and Gladys and Eddie had decided, before taking off for Cambridge, that they should not discuss the fingers again in front of Phyllis, but let it blow over, if possible. Eddie and Phyllis were to leave on the afternoon of Wednesday, day after tomorrow, and by then the matter might be cleared up or in the hands of the police.
    Gladys also had gently warned Phyllis not to bring up “the cat incident” at the don’s house, so Phyllis did not. All went well and happily, and the Herberts and Eddie and Phyllis were back at the Herberts’ house around four. Edna told Gladys she had just realized they were short of butter, and since she was watching a cake . . . Michael, in the living room with Eddie, heard this and volunteered to go to the grocery.
    Michael bought the butter, a couple of packets of cigarettes, a box of toffee that looked nice, and was served by Mary in her usual modest and polite manner. He had been hoping for news from her. Michael had taken his change and was walking to the door, when Mary cried: “Oh, Mr. Herbert!”
    Michael turned round.
    â€œI heard of someone disappearing just this noon,” Mary said, leaning toward Michael across the counter, smiling now. “Bill Reeves—lives on Mr. Dickenson’s property, you know. He has a cottage there, works on the land—or did.”
    Michael didn’t know Bill Reeves, but he certainly knew of the Dickenson property, which was vast, to the northwest of the village. Bill Reeves’s initials fitted the W.R. on the ring. “Yes? He disappeared?”
    â€œAbout two weeks ago, Mr. Vickers told me. Mr. Vickers has the petrol station near the Dickenson property, you know. He came in today, so I thought I’d ask him.” She smiled again, as if she had done satisfactorily with Michael’s little riddle.
    Michael knew the petrol station and knew how Vickers looked, vaguely. “Interesting. Does Mr. Vickers know why he disappeared?”
    â€œNo. Mr. Vickers said it’s a mystery. Bill Reeves’s wife left the cottage too, a few days ago, but everyone knows she went to Manchester to stay with her sister there.”
    Michael nodded. “Well, well. Shows it can happen even here, eh? People disappearing.” He smiled and went out of the shop.
    The thing to do was ring up Tom Dickenson, Michael thought, and ask him what he knew. Michael didn’t call him Tom, had met him only a couple of times at local political rallies and such. Dickenson was about thirty, married, had inherited, and now led the life of gentleman farmer, Michael thought. The family was in the wool industry, had factories up north, and had owned their land here for generations.
    When he got home, Michael asked Eddie to come up to his study, and despite Phyllis’s curiosity, did not invite her to join them. Michael told Eddie what Mary had said about the