The Black House Read Free Page B

name. It looks like an accident and of the kind that doesn’t happen every day.”
    Michael was on the brink of agreeing to this, at least before ringing the police, when the telephone rang. Michael took it, and found Gladys on the line downstairs with a man whose voice sounded like Dickenson’s. “I’ll take it, Gladys.”
    Tom Dickenson said hello to Michael. “I’ve—I thought if you really would like to see me—”
    â€œI’d be very glad to.”
    â€œI’d prefer to speak with you alone, if that’s possible.”
    Michael assured him it was, and Dickenson said he could come along in about twenty minutes. Michael put the telephone down with a feeling of relief, and said to Eddie, “He’s coming over now and wants to talk with me alone. That is the best.”
    â€œYes.” Eddie got up from Michael’s sofa, disappointed. “He’ll be more open, if he has anything to say. Are you going to tell him about the fingers?” He peered at Michael sideways, bushy eyebrows raised.
    â€œMay not come to that. I’ll see what he has to say first.”
    â€œHe’s going to ask you what you found.”
    Michael knew that. They went downstairs. Michael saw Phyllis in the back garden, banging a croquet ball all by herself, and heard Gladys’s voice in the kitchen. Michael informed Gladys, out of Edna’s hearing, of the imminent arrival of Tom Dickenson, and explained why: Mary’s information that a certain Bill Reeves was missing, a worker on Dickenson’s property. Gladys realized at once that the initials matched.
    And here came Dickenson’s car, a black Triumph convertible, rather in need of a wash. Michael went out to greet him. “Hellos,” and “you remember mes.” They vaguely remembered each other. Michael invited Dickenson into the house before Phyllis could drift over and compel an introduction.
    Tom Dickenson was blond and tallish, now in leather jacket and corduroys and green rubber boots which he assured Michael were not muddy. He had just been working on his land, and hadn’t taken the time to change.
    â€œLet’s go up,” said Michael, leading the way to the stairs.
    Michael offered Dickenson a comfortable armchair, and sat down on his old sofa. “You told me—Bill Reeves’s wife went off too?”
    Dickenson smiled a little, and his bluish-gray eyes gazed calmly at Michael. “His wife left, yes. But that was after Reeves vanished. Marjorie went to Manchester, I heard. She has a sister there. The Reeves weren’t getting on so well. They’re both about twenty-five—Reeves fond of his drink. I’ll be glad to replace Reeves, frankly. Easily done.”
    Michael waited for more. It didn’t come. Michael was wondering why Dickenson had been willing to come to see him about a farmworker he didn’t much like?
    â€œWhy’re you interested?” Dickenson asked. Then he broke out in a laugh which made him look younger and happier. “Is Reeves perhaps asking for a job with you—under another name?”
    â€œNot at all.” Michael smiled too. “I haven’t anywhere to lodge a worker. No.”
    â€œBut you said you found something?” Tom Dickenson’s brows drew in a polite frown of inquiry.
    Michael looked at the floor, then lifted his eyes and said, “I found two fingers of a man’s left hand—with a wedding ring on one finger. The initials on the ring could stand for William Reeves. The other initials are M.T., which could be Marjorie somebody. That’s why I thought I should ring you up.”
    Had Dickenson’s face gone paler, or was Michael imagining? Dickenson’s lips were slightly parted, his eyes uncertain. “Good lord, found it where?”
    â€œOur cat dragged it in—believe it or not. Had to tell my wife, because the cat brought it into the living room in front of all of