Amid the Winter's Snow Read online

  “Indeed it is,” I said, smiling.

  “Forgive me, I must get back to the kitchen and keep an eye on our buns.” She flitted out of the room, lighter than I had ever seen her.

  “She’s a good girl, that one,” Miss Barker said. “Such a pity about Frank. He saw the light in her when no one else could—she’s painfully shy, you know, hardly talks when she’s out in public or with those she doesn’t know well—but he had a gift for looking past appearances. I suspect it was because so few people did so with him. He was a handsome boy, that one. Every girl in the village was after him, but he had eyes only for Julia. She won’t have a chance for happiness like that again. I’ll never forgive those Boers for gunning him down.”

  “It was a terrible tragedy,” I said. “War causes unending pain, does it not?”

  “I lost my own fiancé, did you know that, Lady Emily? I imagine you do. The story is still talked about in Dunsford Vale, but it is too awful to think about now, when we have such frightening things happening. Mr. Keeton is selling coffin nails in his shop now, so there’s that to give us a bit of comfort.”

  “Coffin nails?” I asked.

  “They’re one of the few things capable of warding off a barghest,” Miss Barker said. “You’d do well to get a few—those boys of yours are vulnerable, you know. They’re still small.”

  “Perhaps I shall do just that.” I could only imagine what my husband would say if I followed her advice. Colin had not a superstitious bone in his body.

  “Of course he’s not open now, but it is good of him to have got them in. I wouldn’t have expected that from an outsider, but he’s done what he can to assimilate.”

  “I didn’t realize he’s not from Dunsford Vale,” I said.

  “Oh, no, Lady Emily. He’s a Londoner. Still, though, he went with the other men to search for the beast’s lair. It’s only us ladies in the village now, no one left even to ring the church bells. One or two of the men showed signs of fear at going out this morning, but they mustered their courage and did what is required. We don’t tolerate cowards here.”

  The aroma of Miss Fletcher’s baking filled the cottage, and the buns, covered with melted butter, were some of the best I have ever tasted. When the sound of shouts outside announced the return of the search party, she disappeared into the kitchen again, explaining that she had put another batch in the oven, so that the men could have something to fill them up after their long trek through the moors.

  Snow swirled around Colin when he came through the door and great piles of it fell off his overcoat and boots. The other men had headed straight for their own houses, where their wives waited to hear the news, such as it was. Miss Fletcher did not come out of the kitchen, but cracked the door enough that she might listen without being seen. Colin stood near the fire, but did not remove his coat.

  “I can tell you with confidence that we are dealing with a man, not a beast,” he said. “There was very little left of his trail—no footprints in the snow, only splashes of blood from the sheep, and we found the latter only near Wibberley’s farm. Three of the boys who came with us admitted to having heard strange sounds coming from a cave near one of the peaks. They led us to it and inside we found the remains of what appears to have been a camp, recently abandoned. Most likely, some unfortunate soul sought shelter there and stole food from the village to keep from starving. He’s not there anymore, and has probably moved on to another place.”

  “But who is he, Mr. Hargreaves?” Miss Barker asked. “We don’t like strangers wandering around. He murdered a sheep! What might he do next?”

  “No doubt he will continue to search for food. I don’t believe him to be a real threat to the safety of Dunsford Vale.”

  “But the howling, Mr. Hargreaves, the howling! No man could be responsible for that,” she pressed. “And let us not forget the hideous creature that I myself—and Julia—have seen. That was no man.”

  “Barghests are heralds of death, my dear Miss Barker,” Colin said. “I believe this one was telling the villagers that this thief would not be with them much longer.”

  “So you think he is dead?”

  My husband shrugged. “What else does a barghest announce?”

  The elderly woman narrowed her eyes, but nodded her head. “Wise words, Mr. Hargreaves, wise words. We will remain vigilant, though, in case he makes another appearance.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” Colin said. “I want to be kept abreast of further developments, should there be any. In the meantime, though, it is nearly Christmas, and you should all be focused on celebrations, not the barghest.”

  He helped me into my coat. As we were about to take our leave, Miss Fletcher stepped into the room so quietly we didn’t notice until she spoke. “Would you take these to Mr. Keeton’s shop?” she asked, holding out a basket filled with fresh buns. “The men will know to find them there.”

  * * *

  Before we left the village, Colin leapt out of the sledge to deliver the buns to the shopkeeper, who, according to Miss Barker, frequently distributed—at no charge—Miss Fletcher’s baked goods to all those who wanted them. When my husband returned, I asked him about Mr. Keeton. “I didn’t realize he is a Londoner. How long has he called Derbyshire his home?”

  “His parents moved here no more than three months after he was born. His father opened the shop and Keeton took it over when the old man started to ail.”

  “Yet Miss Barker considers him a Londoner?”

  “Yes, my dear, so you may abandon any hopes you have of her ever considering you a local.”

  “I know better than to hold such futile aspirations,” I said, snuggling up against him under the blankets in the sledge. “It appears that you have appeased the maddening crowd about the barghest, to some degree, at least, but what do you really believe is going on?”

  “I spoke nothing but the truth to Miss Barker,” my husband said. “It is clear that someone has been living in that cave, and it is reasonable to conclude that he was unable, at this time of year, to gather much food beyond that which he could steal from the village.”

  “What about Mr. Wibberley’s sheep? Surely no man was responsible for that.”

  Colin sighed. “I agree. I shouldn’t be surprised if he had stolen sheep—there were bones in his cave that suggested just that—but he wouldn’t have brutalized the corpse in such a manner. He would have killed it and carried it away to butcher it. Taking any more time at the farm would likely have got him caught.”

  “So you’re letting everyone believe it was the barghest?”

  “I shan’t be able to convince them otherwise, and there’s no harm in it.”

  “What do you think really happened?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve heard tales of similar occurrences in the Scottish highlands—sheep brutalized by some unknown predator. Perhaps there are similar animals marauding through the moors of Derbyshire, heretofore undetected.”

  “Not a satisfying answer,” I said.

  “Perhaps I can find a way to leave you better sated after we get home. One that has nothing to do with sheep or barghests.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  * * *

  Alas, no satiation of any sort was in store for us back at Anglemore. To start, the boys were in a state. Richard had found a book of English legends in the library and had read a tale of the barghest to his brothers. All three of them were sitting on the floor in the entrance hall, sticks in hand, when Davis opened the door for us. To say that his nerves were strained does not adequately communicate just how flustered he was. He very nearly batted an eyelash, which, for a man of Davis’s imperturbability, was quite extraordinary.

  Colin gathered the boys onto his knees and produced a handful of coffin nails, which he distributed to them, explaining this would keep the barghest at bay. This appeased them, and soon they were following Nanny back up to the nursery.

  “I did not expect you to hold stock in superstition,” I said, after they’d
gone. “Coffin nails?”

  “Every Derbyshire man knows their efficacy in the face of a barghest, my dear. I bought them from Keeton.”

  “Sir.” Davis was still standing by the door. “Much of the staff is out of sorts, shall we say, as a result of the commotion in the village. I don’t suppose you have any more of those nails?”

  With a grin, my husband pulled an entire box of them out of his overcoat pocket and handed them to the butler. “Nothing can beat a coffin nail, Davis.”

  FOUR

  I might have dismissed the matter entirely at that point, chalking it up to hysteria caused by rural legend, had Julia Fletcher not turned up half-frozen on our doorstep the next morning, on Christmas Eve, with tears staining her pale face. “I didn’t know where else to turn,” she told us once Davis had shown her into the library. She had walked all the way from the village, not wanting to draw the attention of any of her neighbors. “I found this sitting on the floor just inside my front door. I am absolutely certain it was not there when I went to sleep last night and I checked that the door was locked before retiring to bed.” She passed Colin a wooden box, fashioned from perfectly polished cherry and fastened with metal clips along its bottom edge. He put it on the library table and opened the clips. The top and sides of the box formed a lid and lifted away to reveal a bouquet of flowers, delicately carved from wood, approximately six inches high, each petal and leaf carefully painted, all displayed in a little wooden vase. It was a riot of color: deep purplish blue, pink, red poppy, bright purple, white, orange, and delicate cream.

  “It’s exquisitely rendered,” I said. “Whoever made it is an expert carver. Are there any such individuals in Dunsford Vale?”

  “No, no, Lady Emily,” Miss Fletcher said. “This could not have been made by any of the villagers. Mr. Keeton carries decorative bits and bobs, but I’ve never seen anything of this quality in his shop.”

  “Does anyone have a copy of the key to your cottage other than my steward?” Colin asked.

  “No, not even Miss Barker.”

  “Did you notice anything about the door?” I asked. “Something to suggest someone forced it open?”

  “No, nothing like that at all,” Miss Fletcher said. She was trembling, and not from the cold.

  “Perhaps a cup of tea would do us some good,” I suggested.

  “No, thank you, Lady Emily, I don’t think I could swallow a drop.”

  “Did you see—or hear—anything unusual last night?” Colin asked.

  “Nothing, and I assure you I was on alert. I have been ever since I saw that creature outside my window. Do you think he might have left it?”

  “I do not doubt that you saw something that night, but it was stormy, remember, and the swirling snow may have played tricks on your eyes,” Colin said. “Regardless, no legendary creature—barghest or otherwise—is known to leave offerings of flowers. Whoever brought these to you is a living, breathing human. I shall go to Dunsford Vale right now and question every person there. Someone must have seen something.”

  “They will only think me more foolish than they already do.”

  “Foolish would be finding something like this inside a locked door and not saying anything about it,” I said.

  “Ought I to go with you, Mr. Hargreaves?” The girl’s skin was deadly pale.

  “No, Miss Fletcher, there is no need. I’ll get the key from my steward and be back almost before you know I’m gone.” She nodded but did not reply. After he left, she sat, quiet, hardly responding to my attempts at conversation.

  “You would do me a great kindness, Miss Fletcher, if you would share your bun recipe with my cook,” I said, after more than half an hour had passed. “If I took you to the kitchen now, do you think you could show her how you make them?”

  “Buns? Of course.” She perked up at once. “You must want a spot of tea yourself, Lady Emily. If you’ll point me to the kitchen, I can take care of everything.”

  I took her downstairs myself, and, after giving Cook a brief—and discreet—explanation, left the girl in more than capable hands. Her tension started to melt away the moment she dipped a measure into a canister of flour. Baking undeniably eased her stress. That settled, I returned to the library to further study the mysterious gift.

  First, I looked on the bottom of the wooden vase, hoping to find some sort of maker’s mark or monogram, but there was nothing. With gentle hands, I removed each of the blossoms and placed them on the leather-topped library table and then searched the bookcases for an illustrated botanical volume I could use to find the name of each of the plants. Armed with that and our copy of Floral Poetry and the Language of Flowers, I set to work.

  The single red poppy that had made the center of the bouquet was the simplest to identify, and I knew its meaning without consulting a book. Consolation. Just the sort of message one might send to a girl who had lost her sweetheart and her father. Next came a profusion of white flowers on a single branch. They looked to me like lilacs, and after searching through the botanical, I could name them: Carolina syringa. Their meaning, according to Floral Poetry and the Language of Flowers? Disappointment. I quickly made my way through the rest of the bouquet. The royal blue convolvulus major signified extinguished hopes, the purple Michaelmas daisy farewell, the blue-bells sorrowful regrets, and silver-green rosemary for remembrance. All appropriate for a young lady in mourning.

  But the rest cut closer in ways that surprised me. A pink begonia that meant deformity. Orange butterfly weed, whose message was let me go. And, finally, cream-colored wild licorice blossoms. Your presence softens my pain.

  I had listed out each flower and its meaning on a piece of paper and as I wrote that last line, your presence softens my pain, a sickening feeling started to build inside me and I hoped Colin would return from the village quickly. It had started to snow again, smaller flakes than usual in Derbyshire. The temperature must have fallen and the wind was kicking up. If my suspicions were correct . . .

  But, no. I could not let myself get carried away by a flight of fancy.

  Just then, Richard came into the library. “Mama, I’ve been reading about the barghest and have come to the conclusion that he is not the beast currently plaguing Dunsford Vale.” All of the boys were precocious, but Richard was the best reader of the three, and had been speaking like an adult almost from the moment he first started to talk. “We may be witness to the first pack of Yeth Hounds in this part of the country. Ordinarily, one would expect to find them in Dartmoor.”

  He looked so very serious, his dark hair, as always, neatly combed, and his lips in a firm line. I didn’t have the heart to question his conclusions. “Is that so? I had no idea they could come this far north.”

  “They are the mad souls of stillborn and unbaptized children,” he said, as if imparting this bit of knowledge would explain away any geographical issues. “Their primary feature is their howls, and they travel in packs. We all keep hearing howls, but no one has dropped dead, as one would expect in the presence of a barghest. So I’m quite certain it’s Yeth Hounds.”

  “And what would you suggest we do?” I asked.

  “Well, I shouldn’t let Henry out of the house if I were you,” he said. “There have been many times I myself would have liked to drag him off to faraway lands given half the chance, and I haven’t got anywhere near the power of a Yeth Hound. They’d get him in no time flat.”

  “I shall follow your excellent advice,” I said, giving him a little hug. “Are he and Tom in the nursery now?”

  “Yes. Tom’s playing with his soldiers and Henry is in disgrace.”

  Business as usual in the Hargreaves family nursery. I was about to send him back upstairs when Miss Fletcher entered, carrying a tray of hot, buttery buns.

  “Who is this fine little gentleman?” she asked. “I do hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “No, you are not,” Richard said. “I’m Master Richard Hargreaves and you must be Miss Julia Fletcher. It’s a pleasure to make yo
ur acquaintance and to inform you that you need not fear the barghest any longer. I have determined we are dealing with Yeth Hounds instead.”

  I opened my mouth to intervene, not wanting Miss Fletcher—who looked composed after her time in the kitchen—to go into a decline, but she showed no sign of upset at my son’s words. If anything, he had all but melted away her shyness. “Is that so, Master Richard? I’m afraid I am wholly inexperienced when it comes to Yeth Hounds. Would you be so kind as to join me for a little nibble and tell me what I ought to expect? It is Christmas Eve, after all, and I shouldn’t think they’d want to get up to much trouble on such a day.”

  She blossomed in the presence of the little boy, and I felt a pang in my heart. She gave him a riddle: I am within as white as snow, without as green as herbs that grow; I am higher than a house, and yet am lesser than a mouse, and clapped her hands when he figured out the answer: a walnut on a tree. She would make an excellent mother. While they chatted over the fresh buns (Richard had far better manners than Henry, who would have devoured the entire plateful without giving anyone else a chance), I returned the wooden blossoms to their vase, folded the paper on which I had recorded their meanings, and excused myself. They hardly registered my exit.

  I found Davis downstairs in his sitting room—he was horrified that I hadn’t rung for him, but I explained the situation and he immediately saw the wisdom in not wanting to let Miss Fletcher hear of my plans. In short order, he had organized for me flasks of hot tea, gathered everything he could find that would help keep me warm, and had the sledge waiting to take me to Dunsford Vale. Colin was still there when I arrived, making his way from house to house, interviewing each of the villagers. He grinned when he spotted me, and clutched at his stomach.

  “I’m afraid I shall explode if I so much as see one more mince pie, yet I remain incapable of refusing them when offered.” He gave me a quick kiss. “What brings you here? I hope whatever you’ve been pursuing proved more fruitful than my own inquiries, for I’ve turned up nothing of use.”