Chapter 150 — A Light on the Hill

Frank Bryce had put his walking stick beside the chair instead of keeping it against his knee. The boys throwing stones near the grounds had finally gone home, his tea was cool enough to drink, and the work he had not finished could wait until morning.

Then he noticed the light in the Riddle house. He stayed still, cup halfway to his mouth, hoping a passing car had thrown a reflection against the glass. Nothing moved on the road below, and the upstairs window remained bright.

‘Little devils,’ he muttered, setting down the tea. Breaking a window was no longer enough for them; now they wanted him to climb the hill and chase them out of a room. He reached for his stick, feeling the ache return before he was properly on his feet.

From the village, the house still looked as though it ought to contain things worth stealing. At close quarters there was dust, old furniture and a growing collection of repairs nobody had authorised Frank to pay for. He had tried explaining that to one boy who asked about hidden treasure, only to find the explanation treated as proof that he knew where it was.

He took his torch and the keys. Outside, the evening had cooled enough to make him wish he had brought a thicker coat, but going back would give the children longer to enjoy themselves. He started up the hill, placing the stick where the path was firm.

The leg made him stop once. He waited with his weight on the other foot, looking down at lights coming on in the village. He had brought the injury home from the war; it had stayed with him through everything which followed.

Some people down there still believed he had killed the Riddles. Others were too young to remember the deaths but had heard the story often enough to say it with the same certainty. Frank had stopped trying to decide which sort angered him more.

He remembered the summer morning, the maid’s cries and the questions. Three people dead in the house, no explanation the police could make fit, and a gardener close enough to be convenient. He had answered what they asked until they let him go without charging him.

In the village, that had somehow become a failure of the police. People who had once asked about his leg began crossing the road before he reached them, and those who did speak wanted him to repeat an account they had already decided not to believe.

The job had remained when other possibilities had not. Owners came and went, the building deteriorated, and he kept doing what he could with the grounds. Fifty years later he was still climbing the same hill to deal with trouble somebody else had left for him.

The key caught in the front door. Frank eased it back, tried again and felt the old lock turn; forcing it would only leave him another repair to explain. He pushed the door with his shoulder and shone the torch across the floor.

Dust had been disturbed near the stairs. He stopped over the marks, then raised the beam towards the landing. The house smelt as it always did inside, of stale air and a damp patch he had never been able to reach, but there was another smell now, faintly smoky.

A voice sounded above him. Frank listened, unable to make out the words, and began climbing with the stick placed carefully ahead of each step. At the turn, light from upstairs showed the edges of the stairs clearly enough for him to switch off the torch.

‘You are becoming particular about the work you will do, Wormtail.’ The voice was thin and harsh, too old for any of the boys Frank had chased that afternoon. He stopped with one foot still on the lower step.

‘No, my Lord. I only meant there might be another way.’ A second voice faltered before continuing. ‘Without involving the boy.’

Frank tightened his grip on the torch. There was a fire in the room; he could hear its small crackles during the pause which followed. Nobody laughed or told the others to be quiet because the gardener was coming.

‘You meant to improve my plan.’ The first voice remained soft, forcing Frank to listen harder instead of move closer.

‘No. No, my Lord.’ The answer came quickly, followed by a faint movement on the boards. Frank took the last step onto the landing, where a narrow gap in the door showed firelight across a shabby sofa.

A short man stood beside it, hands held together in front of him. Frank could see his face when he glanced up, and the fear on it made the gardener reconsider the order he had intended to shout through the doorway.

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‘Then carry out the instructions you were given.’ Something shifted on the sofa, though Frank could not see the speaker beyond its high back.

‘Yes, my Lord.’ The short man bent low enough to disappear beneath the line of the furniture. A knee struck the floor with a soft thump, and Frank looked back towards the stairs.

Someone else stepped into the firelight before he moved. This man was younger, with fair hair and a straighter back. He stood beside the sofa, speaking with rather more confidence than the man on the floor.

‘The arrangements are ready,’ he said. ‘The people we need have been contacted. They’ll come when they’re told.’

The hidden speaker asked whether there was anything else. The younger man hesitated, and Frank felt an odd pressure to remain absolutely still until he had answered.

‘The boy,’ he said at last. ‘I understand the instructions, my Lord. But bringing him to our side—’

‘Barty Crouch.’ The name was barely louder than the fire, yet the man stopped at once. ‘Your father’s position may open doors. It does not make you the person who chooses which ones matter.’

‘Of course not, my Lord.’ He lowered his head, losing the air of confidence he had brought into the room.

‘I require the wandless boy’s assistance. People worked magic before they depended on the instruments everyone now takes for granted.’ The voice grew sharper. ‘I have no intention of ignoring something useful because you find it unusual.’

Frank understood little of it. Instruments, a boy, men waiting to be told when to come: some sort of nonsense dressed up to sound important. But the man named Crouch was not smiling, and the one on the floor had made no attempt to get up.

‘I have made mistakes,’ the voice continued. ‘I do not intend to repeat them. You will do the work you have been given, Barty.’

‘Yes, my Lord.’ Crouch waited a moment before asking about the timing. He sounded careful now, each word separated from the next.

‘At the Quidditch World Cup,’ the hidden speaker said. Frank recognised the last two words and tried to think whether the wireless had mentioned anything being held near the village.

‘While they’re watching the match? We could lose ourselves in the crowd.’ Crouch looked up again. Something on the sofa moved, a small dark shape rising above the cushions before sinking back.

‘The Ministry is concentrating its patrols on the stadium. Visitors everywhere, officials everywhere.’ Irritation roughened the voice. ‘Wait until the Ireland–Bulgaria match is over. Let them begin moving the crowds before you act.’

Crouch asked what would happen then. The answer came with a satisfaction Frank disliked more than the earlier anger.

‘Our old friends can remind the world that I am not gone.’ The fire snapped loudly, and the short man flinched where he knelt.

Frank felt cold despite the heat drifting through the doorway. He did not need to understand the strange words to recognise a discussion about patrols, crowds and choosing when to act. There was a boy they wanted involved, and nobody had spoken as though he would be given much choice.

The police would understand enough. Frank moved his stick away from the door, intending to retreat along the landing before the men noticed he was there.

His leg had stiffened while he stood. He needed a moment to make it carry his weight without scraping the stick across the boards, and during that moment something pressed against his shoe.

He looked down, expecting cloth stirred by a draught. The thing moved against the other side of his ankle, heavy and alive, and he could not stop the breath which caught in his throat.

A snake slid past his feet. Frank braced himself against the wall while its body continued through the gap, far longer than he had expected, the firelight finding a pattern along its back. Its head rose towards the sofa.

It hissed. Another sound answered from behind the furniture, horribly similar, and Frank abandoned any attempt to understand what sort of people kept such a creature in an upstairs room.

He turned towards the stairs. His stick was still lifted to spare the noise when the voice spoke again.

‘Nagini has found someone for us, Wormtail.’ Feet scraped against the floor inside, and Frank tried to hurry. His leg gave beneath him, forcing the stick down hard enough to fill the landing with its sharp knock.

The door opened before he reached the first step. The short man stood in it, no longer wearing the frightened expression Frank had seen by the sofa. His gaze moved over the stick and the torch before settling on Frank’s face.

‘Come in,’ he said. He stepped into the landing, putting himself between the gardener and the stairs.

‘This is private property.’ Frank planted his stick firmly and faced him. ‘You have no business here.’

The man smiled. Frank wished he had taken the stairs at the first adult voice instead of waiting to make sense of the conversation.

‘I look after this house,’ he said, louder. ‘I know who ought to be in it.’

Nobody outside was close enough to hear. Speaking firmly still gave him something to do besides watch the man’s hand move towards his clothes, and he kept the torch raised between them.

‘You don’t know very much at all,’ the short man said. He reached towards Frank, then stopped when the voice from the sofa interrupted.

‘Don’t obstruct the door, Wormtail. Let our guest see who is speaking to him.’

The man stepped aside, keeping the route to the stairs blocked. Frank could see the fire now, Crouch standing beside it and the thick snake coiling close to the furniture. Then the thing on the sofa turned towards him.

It was small and badly wrapped in dark cloth. Its face stopped every word Frank had prepared; for a moment he could not decide what sort of creature he was looking at. A hand rose from the cloth, holding a slender object.

Frank gripped his stick. He wanted the stairs, the cold air outside and the cup of tea he had left beside his chair. Green light filled the doorway before he could take a step towards any of them.