A little sneaky peek at F. L. Everett’s new seasonal murder mystery

We’ve got an exclusive first read from her latest book, where you can dive in and get a chilling preview, only on Silver Magazine. Step into a country house dressed for Christmas, cosy on the surface but with secrets underneath…

Nick, an investigative journalist, has taken shelter at remote Yorkshire hotel Mistletoe Manor during a blizzard. To pass the time, he and his fellow guests have agreed to a game of Secret Santa, wrapping items they’ve found in the hotel, and gifting them to one another. And twenty-something PR woman Violet has just unwrapped the Christmas tree star…

* * * * *

One of the star’s points isn’t gold. It’s a dull crimson, as though it’s been dipped in paint. But as they stare, it becomes clear that it’s not paint at all.

‘That’s . . . is it . . .?’ Lorraine manages, and Violet turns the star round to examine, immediately dropping it as it smears her hand.

‘Oh my God!’ She holds her hand away from her body in horror. ‘Is this a joke? Does someone here think this is funny?’

David is on his feet, shepherding Emily from the room. ‘What? What is it, Daddy?’ she asks, craning her neck to see.

‘I think I heard mewing. We need to find Jingle. Come on . . .’ David urges her away.

Nick wonders if he’ll be the same kind of dad to Cara – alert, kind, protective. He hopes so.

In the drawing room, there’s uproar. Branson is shouting, ‘What the hell kind of gift is that?’

Violet looks as though she’s about to pass out, and Alan has his arm around a shuddering Lorraine. ‘Can’t stand the sight of blood,’ he mouths.

‘My goodness,’ says Matilda to Nick. ‘Someone’s got a peculiar sense of humour.’

Alan reaches to pick up the fallen star.

‘Don’t,’ says Nick. ‘Fingerprints.’

The others stare at him, aghast, and Violet gives a strange, high giggle.

‘You think this is a crime?’ she demands. ‘Come on! It’s just a horrible joke.’

But Nick is looking at Branson. The handsome older man is pale, his forehead is clammy, and he’s gazing fixedly at the stairs.

‘If none of us is injured . . .’ he says. ‘Penny.’

Donal extends a hand to Branson. ‘Give me your room key.’

‘I don’t . . .’ Branson pats his pockets. ‘I musta left it up there.’

‘I’ve got mine,’ says Donal, patting his pocket. He runs to the hall then takes the stairs two at a time. Nick follows, with Branson and Alan. The others gather in the hall.

‘Would you like a hug?’ Destiny asks Lorraine, and she nods tearfully. The two women cling together as Matilda and Violet stand rigid and fearful by the drooping Christmas tree.

There was no star on its top branch yesterday, Nick realises, but there’s no time to think about what that means. Donal has drawn to a halt by a panelled door in the corridor on the other side of the stairs from Nick’s room. He knocks, tentatively.

‘Hello? Mrs Mitchell?’ There is silence behind the door.

‘Could be she’s put her earplugs in and gone back to sleep,’ says Branson. ‘She sleeps like the dead with those things.’

Nick glances at him, and the older man’s bravado drains away. Branson closes his eyes, bracing himself.

‘Go on,’ Nick tells Donal. ‘Or do you want me to do it?’

He pictures Penelope sitting up, still half asleep, shocked at the intrusion. Donal shakes his head. He fits the key into the lock and turns it, pushing the door open. The room is dark, the shutters closed, but the vanity light shining from the bathroom illuminates a human shape in the double bed.

‘Penny!’ Branson shouts. ‘Wake up, honey!’

She doesn’t stir.

Nick moves towards the bed. ‘Let me check,’ he says. He’s thinking about the time he did a first aid course, that if Penelope’s really hurt, he knows how to make a tourniquet, he can staunch the blood, he can . . .

Donal folds back the shutters and grey light spills into the room. Now, the men can see that Penny is lying on her back. Her left arm is flung out as if in greeting, her right hand a claw on the pillow. Her eyes are open, her mouth a rictus of fear – and in her neck there’s a wound so deep, Nick involuntarily turns away, but not before he sees the blood soaking into the pillow, the spatters across the bedspread. She has clearly been dead for several hours.

‘Branson, Alan, out of the room,’ he says urgently. ‘Don’t come any closer, go and find David right now. We need a doctor.’

‘She’s my wife!’ storms Branson. ‘I need to see what’s . . .’

He steps nearer and sees the damp red pillow, the spray of arterial blood.

‘Oh God, no,’ he whispers. He collapses against the wall. ‘Penny, no.’

‘Come on, mate,’ Alan half lifts him and pulls him from the room.

A woman’s voice floats from below. ‘What’s happening? Is she OK?’

Nick takes charge. ‘Donal, could you go and break the news to the others, please? Alan, can you ask someone to look after Branson downstairs, then find David, and I’ll stay with the bo—with Penelope.’

Donal nods as he heads for the door, and Nick feels profoundly grateful for the young man’s swift grasp of the situation.

‘We need to try and find a way to call the police,’ Nick adds. The scene is surreal: the old-fashioned bedroom, the red blood, the falling snow. He should be at the office near Blackfriars Bridge right now, eating a festive Tesco meal deal, typing up his notes, thinking about last-minute presents for Harriet.

‘I’ll ask everyone to try their phones again,’ says Donal. ‘The landline’s dead, and the Wi-Fi seems to be out.’

‘Yes, it wasn’t working last night when I arrived,’ says Nick. ‘Could you maybe have a look at the box, just to make sure a wire hasn’t come loose?’

‘Sure,’ says Donal, already on his way out. ‘But I think it’s the snow. There’s a mast up on the moors, it’s probably been damaged in the blizzard.’

Nick knows he’s right. He’s just finding it hard to believe that in a world where basically everything runs on Wi-Fi, AI and tech, they can’t get an urgent message to the police.

Somebody is wailing downstairs. Nick can hear gasps of horror, the sound of a woman sobbing. Donal has done his duty, then. Perhaps Nick should have taken on that horrible task, but the truth is, he doesn’t know who to trust and someone needs to stay with the body and ensure it’s not moved.

Clues, he thinks. Forensics. Nick scans the room. The shutters were closed when they came in, but the curtains were open – that may mean nothing, of course. On Branson’s side of the bed, there’s a mobile phone, clearly out of battery, and a half-empty glass of water. Nick bends to sniff it, and inhales that ferric tang he recognises from his own bathroom tap. He straightens up, feeling foolish. It’s not as if she was poisoned – it’s perfectly clear how she died.

On Penelope’s bedside table, there’s a lamp, switched off, and a book – The Testaments by Margaret Atwood. She doesn’t seem to have got far with it, judging by the bookmark placement. Nick feels a sharp pang of sorrow that now she’ll never finish it. Beside it is a lavender-silk eye-mask – why wasn’t she wearing it? Did she rip it off when she heard a noise?

Nick looks more closely at the polished surface. There’s an almost invisible trail of fine, white dust. Surely not drugs. Neither Penelope nor Branson seems the type. Some kind of vitamin powder? It suddenly strikes him why it looks familiar – it’s the dust that comes from ripping open a thick envelope. He sees their sunny kitchen last summer, Harriet tearing open a thick cream envelope, scanning a wedding invitation. His heart sinking, knowing he’d need a new suit, they’d need to buy a present . . . the ripped envelope made just that kind of fine dust on the worktop.

Nick crosses to the metal waste bin, under the desk. He shouldn’t touch anything . . . he creates a makeshift mitten from the bottom of his T-shirt and gently pulls it out. There’s the envelope – thick, white, torn open, a single P in black ink on the front. And beside it, next to an apple core and a crumpled information leaflet about Castle Howard, there’s a leaf of plain white paper, screwed into a ball. Nick pinches it by the corner, holding it through his T-shirt, and pulls it out, unfolding the creases. These five words, too, are in black pen, printed in neat capitals:

I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

Get the book

Four days before Christmas, twelve stranded strangers gather round a crackling fire, sheltering from the raging storm outside. . .

But their relief is short-lived: as the snow deepens, the tree-lined avenue winding through the hotel’s parkland becomes impassable. Their isolation is complete. The next morning, a body is found in one of the luxurious four-poster beds. As twelve strangers become eleven suspects, who among them has checked in with murder in mind? And will any of them live to see another Christmas. . .?

Murder at Mistletoe Manor by F. L. Everett is the perfect festive read. Get it here.