To my right there was a newly refurbished flour mill, closed, and a public convenience beneath a town hall, also closed. Opposite me there there was a wool shop – open, curiously enough, and then a Co-op and Ottoman takeaway – again, closed. There were a few people around but no one seemed to be dawdling. Mostly heads-down against the cold, faces hidden in hooded parkas.

The Wincarnis Hotel was to my immediate left, the name of the establishment relating to a brightly coloured enamel sign advertising Wincarnis Restorative Tonics high above the door. The Edwardian lady depicted on the panel peered out at the world with a cheery grin, oblivious to the ice and snow, the enamelled colours appearing inordinately bright in the dullness of the gas lamps.

I stepped inside the lobby and walked across to the reception desk, where there was a girl probably no older than sixteen sitting behind the counter. She wore a gingham dress under two buttoned cardigans, and her straight brown hair was cut neatly into a pudding bowl. She was poring over a stack of open books, and writing in a small neat hand in a child’s exercise book.

‘Welcome to the Wincarnis,’ she said in a cheery voice. ‘Haven’t seen you here before.’

‘Passing through,’ I said. ‘I was to meet Moody. He here?’

‘Nope, probably off somewhere muttering about Buicks and suchlike. What did you want to talk to him about?’

‘Buicks and suchlike.’

‘Figures,’ she said.

She had what looked like schoolwork spread across the counter in front of her.

‘Homework?’ I asked.

‘It’s actually my doctoral thesis,’ she said with a mildly offended air. ‘Evidential confirmation of previously considered legendary or nebulous forms within the Winterstate.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I’m trying to prove the existence of Wintervolk.’

She might as well be attempting to prove unicorns or capture fairies in traps.

‘That’ll be tricky, don’t you think?’ I asked.

‘It’s borderline impossible.’

‘Because they don’t exist?’

‘Oh, they exist all right – it’s gathering evidence that’s hard. But I wagered a local bondsman they existed, and Jim Treacle, well, he does like a wager.’

‘What was the wager?’ I asked, expecting a dozen Topics or something.

‘Fifty grand.’

‘Fifty grand?’ It would take me twenty years to save up that sort of money. ‘Why so much?’

‘Long story. What do you make of this?’

She opened her satchel and took out a small box and then, with the utmost care, opened it to reveal a tiny hat, less than five centimetres across.

‘Behold,’ she said, ‘the headgear of a Tonttu, one of the Winter little people.’

I stared at it for a moment. The stitching was undoubtedly fine, but the material was less like leather and more like  . . . plastic.

‘I think it’s from a Barbie,’ I said, ‘one of her Western outfits.’