Chapter 168
Inside the pub, one of the women said,
"Now listen… Frank went through a harsh war, that's why he prefers a quiet life. There's no reason to "
But the cook cut her off sharply,
"Who else has the key to the back door, huh? There wasn't a spare key hanging in his shack, as far as I remember. All Frank had to do was sneak into the house while we were all asleep and "
The villagers exchanged meaningful glances until one of them muttered,
"He's always looked suspicious enough… that's reason enough for me."
The innkeeper said,
"We've all made fun of him before, but I told you, I don't like it when people pick on Frank, right, Dot?"
Dot nodded. "He was always a strange boy. I remember when he was a child…"
And so the gossip carried on through the night rumors and whispers without any solid proof.
By the next morning, however, no one in Little Hangleton doubted it anymore:
Frank Bryce had murdered the Riddle family.
---
In the Great Hangleton police station, Frank kept insisting over and over that he was innocent that the only person he'd seen near the house that night was a pale-faced boy with dark hair, a stranger to the village.
But no one else had seen any such boy.
The police were convinced that Frank was inventing stories to save himself. Things looked grim for him until the coroner's report came in and changed everything.
It was the strangest report the police had ever received. The three Riddles had not been poisoned, stabbed, shot, strangled, or harmed in any physical way.
In fact, the report read:
> "The Riddle family appeared perfectly healthy. There are no visible signs of death."
But the doctors had added one odd note:
> "The only peculiar feature is the expression of terror fixed on each of their faces. It appears as though they died… of fright."
As the police said afterward who had ever heard of three people dying of sheer terror?
With no evidence of murder, they had no choice but to release Frank.
---
The Riddle family was buried in the churchyard of Little Hangleton. For months, their graves became a morbid attraction to curious visitors.
What truly shocked everyone, though, was that Frank went back to his small cottage on the Riddle estate, just as before.
In the "Hanged Man" pub, Dot shook her head.
"I'm certain he did it," she said. "I don't care what the police say."
Frank, however, stayed on as the groundskeeper, tending the gardens for the families who came and went after the Riddles' deaths.
None of them stayed long. Every tenant who moved into the house said the same thing that something felt wrong inside those walls.
Eventually, the grand Riddle House fell into neglect.
Its wealthy owner, who lived elsewhere, never used it himself. The villagers said he only kept it for "tax reasons," though none of them could explain what that meant.
He continued paying Frank a small wage to look after the gardens.
Frank was now seventy-seven years old. His hearing was poor, his bad leg worse than ever but he still dragged himself out to the flowerbeds whenever the weather was good.
Weeds were not his only problem. The local boys liked to throw stones at the old house, just to watch Frank hobble angrily after them, shouting in his cracked voice.
Frank knew they did it because they thought him a murderer just like their parents did.
So when, one night in August, he woke to see something strange at the Riddle House, his first thought was that those boys were at it again.
His leg was aching badly, the pain waking him from sleep. He decided to refill his hot-water bottle in the kitchen sink.
As he leaned over the basin, he looked out the window toward the house and froze.
There was light in the upstairs windows. Flickering light. Firelight.
"Those blasted kids," he muttered. They'd broken in again.
Frank didn't have a telephone, and even if he did, he wouldn't have called the police they still didn't trust him after the murder years ago.
He set the kettle aside, pulled on his clothes, grabbed an old key from behind the door, and limped quickly into the darkness.
The front door of the Riddle House showed no sign of being forced.
He circled around to the back, where ivy nearly covered the old door. The key still fit; the lock turned with a soft click.
He slipped inside the kitchen.
Though he hadn't entered the house in years, his memory guided him through the darkness toward the hall and up the stairs, his ears straining for sound.
The thick layer of dust muffled his footsteps and the tap of his cane.
At the top of the staircase, a faint glow flickered from a half-open door at the end of the corridor.
Frank crept closer, gripping his walking stick tightly. Through the crack, he could see a bit of the room and he could hear.
A man's voice, frightened and trembling:
"There's more in the bottle, sir… if you're still hungry."
Another voice replied a cold, high voice that made Frank's scalp prickle:
"Later."
The first man moved Frank could see him now. Small, hunched, with a bald patch gleaming at the back of his head, wearing a long black cloak.
Then the cold voice spoke again:
"Where is Nagini?"
"I I don't know, my Lord," the smaller man stammered. "I think… she's out patrolling the house."
"You must feed her, Wormtail. And I will need more food tonight. The journey has left me weak."
Frank pressed his ear to the door. He heard a glass bottle set down, the scrape of a heavy chair on the floor.
Then the high voice again:
"Move me closer to the fire, Wormtail."
Frank's heart pounded. Move me? What was wrong with the speaker?
Wormtail spoke again, nervously:
"My Lord… may I ask… how much longer we will stay here?"
"A week… perhaps longer," hissed the other. "This place is suitably quiet. The plan cannot proceed yet. It would be foolish to act before the Quidditch World Cup ends. Junior has not finished the task I gave him."
Frank frowned. Quidditch World Cup? What nonsense was that?
Wormtail hesitated, then asked,
"The Quidditch World Cup, my Lord? Forgive me, but… I don't understand why we must wait for it to finish."
"Because," said the cold voice impatiently, "wizards from all over the world are gathering in Britain. Ministry officials are everywhere. To avoid drawing attention from the Muggles, secrecy is essential. We will wait."
Frank froze. Wizards? Ministry? Muggles? None of it made sense.
Spies or lunatics, he thought grimly and tightened his grip on the cane.
Then Wormtail asked,
"Couldn't we do it without Albert Black, my Lord?"
There was a long pause.
"Without Albert Black?" the voice repeated softly. "Perhaps…"
Wormtail rushed on nervously,
"I mean no disrespect, my Lord. The boy means nothing to me, though I admit his power could be dangerous if left unchecked. But surely there are other wizards we could use to hasten the plan? If you permit, I could go and bring someone back "
"Have you forgotten," hissed the other, "that I assigned that task to Junior? Or do you wish to take it from him?"
"No, no, my Lord!" Wormtail squeaked. "Never! I wouldn't dare! I live only to serve you!"
"Liar," the voice whispered. "I always know when you lie to me, Wormtail. You flinch when you look at me. You tremble when you touch me…"
"N-no, my Lord! My loyalty is true!"
"Your loyalty," said the cold voice, "is nothing but cowardice. You'd abandon me in an instant if you had anywhere else to go. How would I live without you, Wormtail? Who would feed me every few hours? Who would care for Nagini?"
Wormtail murmured timidly,
"But you… you seem stronger, my Lord…"
"Liar!" the voice shrieked suddenly, icy rage filling the air. "I am not stronger! A few days alone would drain the little strength I've regained under your clumsy care. Be silent!"
For a long moment, only the crackle of fire filled the room.
Then, softer, more sinister:
"I have my reasons for using the boy. I've waited thirteen years what are a few months more?
As for the other one Harry he is of no concern for now. He is weak. My plan
will succeed.
All I need from you, Wormtail, is a little courage.
Unless, of course, you'd like to discover what it means to anger Lord Voldemort…"
To be continued...