Winter’s Children: Curl up with this gripping, page-turning mystery as the nights get darker
‘A heartwarming read.’ CloserGrieving widow, Kay Partridge and her daughter Evie, unable to face the oncoming Christmas festivities, move into a cottage at majestic Wintergill Farm in the Yorkshire Dales to escape.But Wintergill is far from the quiet refuge they had hoped for. The owners are facing a bleak future, but despite the struggle Nik Snowden wants to keep the house and lands that have been in his family for generations.Yet, Nik is not the only one attached to the house. In the distant past, a terrible tragedy occurred and ever since a restless spirit is rumoured to haunt the land bringing misery and devastation.Through the long winter nights buried secrets are brought to light, but can they prevent another tragedy at Wintergill?The perfect gripping mystery for fans of Rachel Hore and Jenny Ashcroft
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LEAH FLEMING
Winter’s Children
HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers in 2010 This ebook edition published by HarperCollins Publishers in 2017
Copyright © Leah Fleming 2010
Cover layout design © Becky Glibbery 2017
Cover photographs © Shutterstock
Leah Fleming asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9781847561046
Ebook Edition © November 2010 ISBN: 9780007352487
Version: 2017-08-28
For all the Wiggins, past, present and future who love this season.
Contents
Sutton Coldfield, October 2001
Joss Snowden and the London Painter, July 1816
Sutton Coldfield, December 2000
When the doorbell rang on Christmas Eve, at first Kay and the Partridge family were too busy wrapping up last-minute presents to answer it.
‘Tim’s forgotten his key again,’ Kay shouted to her mother-in-law. ‘Trust him to be home late!’ Since their house had been sold, they were living with Tim’s parents until the move to London in the New Year. ‘Evie, go and open the door for Daddy!’ she yelled to their small daughter, who was as high as a kite on chocolate decorations that had been destined for the Christmas tree. Kay hoped Tim had stopped off at the garden centre to pick one up. He’d promised to dress it with Evie a week ago but the firm had wanted him to go north to secure a deal in Newcastle.
‘Is that you, darling? You’re so … late!’ she yelled down the stairs. There was no response so she trundled down to hear his excuses. Evie was standing at the foot of the stairs looking puzzled.
‘A policeman’s come, and a lady one, they want to speak to you,’ she said smiling. ‘Has Daddy been naughty?’
Kay looked beyond her child to the open door and her knees began to buckle. The expression on the two faces said it all …
Yorkshire, November 2001
She glides through Wintergill House, drifting between the walls and closed-up passageways. No floorboards creak, no plasterwork flakes as she brushes past, only a tinge of the scent of lavender betrays her presence. The once mistress of the hearth lists where she wills. She knows every nook and cranny, every dust bowl and rat run, loose boards and lost tokens, cats’ bones crumbling in the roof spaces.
Hepzibah Snowden patrols her kingdom as she did in her own time, keys clanking on her leather girdle, a tallow candle in the pewter hold, still checking that the servants are abed and Master Nathaniel, lord of her nights, is snoring by the fire. She knows her dust is blown into every crevice of the old house, circled by the four winds of heaven. The autumn mists rise from the valley but Hepzibah has no eyes for the outdoors. Her spirit imbues its benign presence only within the confines of these stone walls.
November is the month of the dead. The barometer falls and daylight shortens its path across the sky. She knows the year is beginning its slow dance of death when the leaves curl and rust and sap sink to the roots.
The air is stale, silence reigns. The house is empty of joy. These tenants, an old woman and her son, ignore the patches of damp, the peeling plasterwork, loose slates on the dairy roof. It is a cold, empty and barren hearth. No servants warm their master’s bedpans with hot ashes. No wife warms the master’s buttocks. No horse’s muck steams in the cobbled yard. She hears no shepherd’s cough or stable boy’s whistle. They have made another dwelling of the barn.
It saddens her heart to see all Nathaniel’s toil fall into disrepair. The Lord in His wisdom hath rained down such a plague upon these pastures of late. Now not a living beast bellows from the byre; not a sheep bleats across the meadows. The Lord hath shown no mercy to Godless Yorkshire. All was lost to the summer slaughter in the killing fields below. Now is only silence and tears.
