The Black House Read Free Page A

disappearance of a farmworker called Bill Reeves a couple of weeks ago. Eddie agreed that they might ring up Dickenson.
    â€œThe initials on the ring could be an accident,” Eddie said. “The Dickenson place is fifteen miles from here, you say.”
    â€œYes, but I still think I’ll ring him.” Michael looked up the number in the directory on his desk. There were two numbers. Michael tried the first.
    A servant answered, or someone who sounded like a servant, inquired Michael’s name, then said he would summon Mr. Dickenson. Michael waited a good minute. Eddie was waiting too. “Hello, Mr. Dickenson. I’m one of your neighbors, Michael Herbert . . . Yes, yes, I know we have—couple of times. Look, I have a question to ask which you might think odd, but—I understand you had a workman or tenant on your land called Bill Reeves?”
    â€œYe-es?” replied Tom Dickenson.
    â€œAnd where is he now? I’m asking because I was told he disappeared a couple of weeks ago.”
    â€œYes, that’s true. Why do you ask?”
    â€œDo you know where he went?”
    â€œNo idea,” replied Dickenson. “Did you have any dealings with him?”
    â€œNo. Could you tell me what his wife’s name is?”
    â€œMarjorie.”
    That fitted the first initial. “Do you happen to know her maiden name?”
    Tom Dickenson chuckled. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
    Michael glanced at Eddie, who was watching him. “Do you know if Bill Reeves wore a wedding ring?”
    â€œNo. Never paid that much attention to him. Why?”
    Why, indeed? Michael shifted. If he ended the conversation here, he would not have learned much. “Because—I’ve found something that just might be a clue in regard to Bill Reeves. I presume someone’s looking for him, if no one knows his whereabouts.”
    â€œI’m not looking for him,” Tom Dickenson replied in his easy manner. “I doubt if his wife is, either. She moved out a week ago. May I ask what you found?”
    â€œI’d rather not say over the phone . . . I wonder if I could come to see you. Or perhaps you could come to my house.”
    After an instant of silence, Dickenson said, “Quite honestly, I’m not interested in Reeves. I don’t think he left any debts, as far as I know, I’ll say that for him. But I don’t care what’s happened to him, if I may speak frankly.”
    â€œI see. Sorry to’ve bothered you, Mr. Dickenson.”
    They hung up.
    Michael turned to Eddie Phelps and said, “I think you got most of that. Dickenson’s not interested.”
    â€œCan’t expect Dickenson to be concerned about a disappeared farmworker. Did I hear him say the wife’s gone too?”
    â€œThought I told you. She went to Manchester to her sister’s, Mary told me.” Michael took a pipe from the rack on his desk and began to fill it. “Wife’s name is Marjorie. Fits the initial on the ring.”
    â€œTrue,” said the Colonel, “but there’re lots of Marys and Margarets in the world.”
    â€œDickenson didn’t know her maiden name. Now look, Eddie, with no help from Dickenson, I’m thinking we ought to buzz the police and get this over with. I’m sure I can’t bring myself to bury that—object. The thing would haunt me. I’d be thinking a dog would dig it up, even if it’s just bones or in a worse state, and the police would have to start with somebody else besides me, and with a trail not so fresh to follow.”
    â€œYou’re still thinking of foul play?—I have a simpler idea,” Eddie said with an air of calm and logic. “Gladys said there was a hospital twenty miles away, I presume in Colchester. We might ask if in the last two weeks or so there’s been an accident involving the loss of third and fourth fingers of a man’s left hand. They’d have his