“They appear to have rooms. Hardly the most welcoming of places, from what I can see, but it’s really a case of any port in a storm.” He took my hand and led me through the snow to the building. I was going to say the warmth of the building, but in truth it wasn’t much warmer than the motorcar had been. One naked bulb hung in a hallway and an uncarpeted stair disappeared into darkness.

“Caught in the storm, were you?” the innkeeper asked. Now that we could see her, I noticed that she was a big-boned cart horse of a woman with little darting eyes in a pudgy, heavy-jowled face.

I shot a swift glance at Darcy, praying he wouldn’t make a facetious comment along the lines that we were actually heading for the Riviera and took a wrong turn.

“We were heading for Scotland but the road is closed,” I said before he could answer.

“Aye. We heard that on the wireless,” she said. “Reckon it will take days, don’t they? So you’ll be wanting a room, then?”

“We will,” Darcy said.

“I’ve just the one room,” she said. “The others are occupied. You are a married couple, I take it?” And she gave us a hard stare, trying to see a wedding ring through my gloves, I suspected.

“Of course,” Darcy said briskly. “Mr. and Mrs. Chomondley-Fanshaw. That’s spelled ‘Featherstonehaugh,’ by the way.”

I fought back a desire to giggle. She was still eyeing us suspiciously. “I don’t care how it’s spelled,” she said. “We don’t go for airs and graces in this part of the country. As long as good honest folk have the brass to pay, we don’t care how many hyphens they have in their names.”

“Right, then,” Darcy said. “If you’d be good enough to show us the room?”

She didn’t budge but pointed. “Turn right at the top of the stairs and it’s at the end of the hall. Number thirteen.”

Then she reached into a cubby and handed us a key. “Breakfast from seven to nine in the dining room. Breakfast is extra. Oh, and if you want a bath you’ll have to wait till morning. Hot water is turned off between ten and six. And the bath’s extra too.”

Darcy gave me a look but said nothing. “I’ll take you up first then go and get the bags,” he said. “Come on.”

I followed him up the narrow stair. An icy draft blew down at us.

“Are there fires in the rooms?” Darcy turned back to ask the landlady, who was still standing there watching us.

“No fireplace in that room,” she said.

“And I suppose a cup of hot chocolate is out of the question?” There wasn’t much hope in his voice.

“Kitchen closed at eight.” She turned her back and walked into the darkness of the hallway.