House of Riddles

Mary Riddle smiled sweetly at Mrs Collins, holding her teacup’s handle a little too tightly and forcing her trembling hand to stay still. Never she would give that wench the satisfaction to catch her weakness.

“No news, yet. However, I am positive that we will find her soon.”

Was her smile too stiff? Did she sound too bitter? If only that tramp hadn’t drugged him, Tom would have married Miss Cecilia Thorpe. Of course, now the connection was severed and could not be renewed, but once they would find a proper match. Mary had already a few names in mind. Miss Eleanor Steele was a baronet’s daughter, but Miss Rachel Dermot brought sixty-nine thousand into the marriage, which made up for her being American. Tom had turned twenty-one only a few months before, there was still time to fulfil the requirement of Uncle Charles’ will.

They only need to confirm the tramp’s status, reason why Tom and his father had travelled to London. Mary hoped that the tramp had the decency to be dead already, it would prevent the embarrassment of annulling the marriage.

Mrs Collins smirked. “You are admirable, Mary dear…” She slurped her tea, loud and vulgar. “I would never find in my heart to forgive the woman who tricked my son into marrying her.”

Mary’s spine stiffened, yet she forced her expression to stay amiable.

“I do not know what you heard, but Tom acted out of the goodness of his heart. Only a stone-hearted man would have denied help to that poor girl.”

“So why did he come back alone?”

“As I told you, we are looking for her to know why she left him without a word.” Mary sipped her tea, elegant as ever, to keep her temper in check. “It is quite ungrateful of her, after all Tom did to get her out of that awful household, however, we should hold any judgement until we know the whole truth—come in.”

The butler entered in the drawing room. “The Master demands you on the phone, Madam.”

“Did you tell him that I have guests?”

“It… sounds urgent, Madam.”

“Do not worry for me, Mary dear,” Mrs Collins said with a smirk, placing the half-drunk cup of tea on the table. “I have to get ready for Lord Couzon’s New Year Eve dinner party.”

Mary forced her lips into a polite smile, ordering the butler to see Mrs Collins out. She walked to her husband’s study, staring for a moment at the black telephone on the oak desk. Did they find the tramp? Was she already dead?

“Hallo? Mrs Riddle speaking.”

Her husband’s voice was distorted, metallic, and worried.

“Darling? Tom… Tom had an accident.”

* * *

Mary filled another glass of scotch and drank it in one go, pacing back and forth in the drawing room.

What had she done to deserve that? She even bore with losing her thin waist and firm breasts! If it wasn’t for Riddle House and Uncle Charles’ inheritance, she would never have a son!

Perhaps she wouldn’t lose Riddle House after her husband’s death, but Uncle Charles’ will was clear. Tom had to marry and have a son by his twenty-fifth birthday, or everything will end up in the Collinses’ filthy hands. But how could he now that he had become sterile? Was there really no other solution but surgical asportation?

Tom would have died of septicaemia, Thomas told her on the phone.

“He was better off dead!” Mary hissed, slumping into the armchair. “How could my son be such a useless oaf?”

If Tom was half as clever as her, he wouldn’t have fallen for whatever trick that tramp had used. If he was half clever as her, he would have known that riding that much could cause harm.

“What should I do now?!”

Mary held her head. She was good at damage control; she already spread the new that Tom was at the hospital because of a burst appendix. However, no matter how much she thought about it, she could think of no solution for his condition. Even if he married a more proper match, even if he could still be able to perform his marital duty, the chances of conceiving were null!

She was going to lose everything. Her house, her status, Uncle Charles’ inheritance. A proper marriage with a proper young lady that would be the stepping stone for Tom’s political career. Already potential sponsors were twisting their nose when they heard about who Mrs Tom Riddle was, or that he abandoned her—the last rumour spread despite Mary’s efforts to make it sound as if the tramp had ditched Tom.

“What now?” Mary barked at maid.

The servant wriggled her hands, looking as disgusted as if she had stepped on horse manure.

“Madam, that woman is at the back gate.”

Oh great, her day couldn’t be worse.

“Kick her out!”

“We’ve been trying for almost an hour, Madam! I even threw dirty water at her, but she insists on speaking with the young master,” the maid said. “Mr Smithers wishes to call the constable, but I suggested that perhaps… you may not want to involve him?”

At least there was someone with an ounce of brain in their heads. The constable had a habit to babble too much when he was into his cup, and his wife was an even bigger mouth. Mary didn’t need more rumours to spread. No, she had to deal with that tramp herself.

Mary poured herself another glass of scotch.

“Bring my coat.”

It was freezing outside, and a light as cold rained down from the grey sky. Mary walked briskly across the cobbles soaked in melted snow and salt, her frustration growing with each step that brought her closer to the tramp. A stable boy walked past her, waving a whip that he handed to Mr Smithers. Mary waited for the third blow before stepping in—they might be at the back gate of Riddle House, but one never knew who might pass by. Especially with all the noise the tramp was making, someone was bound to show up for some juicy gossip.

The tramp was more revolting than Mary could remember, with those cross eyes and hair that hadn't been washed or combed since who knew when; her face was swollen and streaked with tears. She was curled up in the snow like the bitch that she was.

"Please—" Something blocked the words in her throat.

"You've got some gall!" Mary thundered, tugging her mink coat tightly around her body. "Do you think you can come here as you please, just because my Tom put a ring on your finger? Go away!"

The tramp shook her head. "Please... I just want to see Tom…"

Mary's throat filled with bile.

"He is not home, and even if he were, he has no wish to see you." She turned away, unable to bear the sight of her one more moment. "Go away, or you will oblige me to use force!"

"Madam, for pity's sake-"

"Mr Smithers, if on the count of three that bitch is still here, you have my permission to beat her," Mary ordered, letting a wicked smile deform her lips.

She didn't need to detail the order any further. If Mr Smithers beat the tramp to death, they could just say it was an accident and that he had mistaken the woman for a thief. Besides, what could a tramp who only owner the rags on her back do against a rich squire?

"One..."

Mary savoured the word, articulating it with growing satisfaction.

"... Two..."

She breathed in, barely turning her head to watch out of the corner of her eye as the first blow of the whip fell on the tramp.

"... Thr-"

An inhuman howl rose against the December sky.

"My baby!"

A pool of liquid spread beneath Merope Gaunt's crouching body.