After taking out and finishing the last of the bread they had left, Sigerson rose from the rickety bench they were sitting on, told Evelyn that he was going to scout the surrounding area, and strolled away leisurely. He muttered to himself as he walked along the river, fixing his eyes on various markers to help him remember the layout and borders of the village.
A shrill cry rang out somewhere beyond Sigerson's range of sight. Another shriek, equally loud, shot out, seconds after the first. Recognising the tone of distress in the voice, he hurried over to the source of the sound. A desperate scene loomed before his eyes; a small boy, no older than eight was waving his hands frantically, the lower half of his body completely engulfed by the raging river.
Next to the river, his mother, who had the same fair hair as the child, kept running to keep up with the boy, shrieking at him to grab a hold on something, while she desperately looked around for help. Sigerson, having spotted the boy being carried away, threw off his coat and dashed to the river, thinking furiously how to help rescue the drowning child.
There was no rope nor anything for him to hold on to, but if he didn't act quickly, the boy would soon be smashed by the jagged rocks up ahead. The rocks… They were the only footholds available to use, slippery but less harmful if used properly. He reached the rocks just before the boy did and, cramming his foot slightly in between two of them, he managed to stay firmly secure on the dry grey platforms, inches above the foaming water.
With his trousers soaking wet, Sigerson caught and pulled the boy up, whose head narrowly missed a particularly aggressive looking rock. The weight and momentum of the boy, however, could not be supported by Sigerson alone; he staggered backwards, his foot slipped, and into the icy river they both went. Freezing water gushed into their lungs as they struggled to keep afloat. A low-hanging branch hovered above in front of them. If he could only reach out and pull them both out of the water… Highly risky but worth a try.
Preparing every muscle in his body and clutching the gasping boy firmly, when the branch was within an arm's length above the surface of the water, he pushed up with every ounce of strength he had left. Up they rose, out of the water, high enough for Sigerson to get a strong grip on the knobbly branch. Pulling himself up a little higher while still clutching the boy, he coughed, "Hold on to me tightly before you fall back in."
This made the boy wrap his arms around Sigerson's neck excruciatingly tight then, with his two arms free to move, he used the branch to pull them to the bank, carrying the combined weight of them both along with their sodden clothes. The mother, after seeing her child safe on the muddy bank, uttered a relieved cry and rushed over to him.
"Towel," croaked Sigerson to her, who was hugging and crying over the boy, repeating to him over and over not to play near the river before thanking the detective for his help.
"He needs a towel, otherwise he'll catch a cold in this weather."
She obeyed at once and left for their cottage to bring back a pair of towels. By now, Evelyn had also caught up with them, after hearing the distressed mother's calls from a distance. She retrieved Sigerson's coat, brought it over to him and asked several times whether he was hurt.
"I'm fine, I'm fine," he said, waving her away. "If you need to worry, check on the kid, not me."
Bringing two fluffy towels, the mother came back, slightly surprised to see Evelyn standing over Sigerson; nevertheless, she handed a towel to Sigerson, and began to rub her son dry, until he wriggled out of her grip. This was the first time Sigerson had a clear view of the boy he rescued from the river. He had flaxen wavy hair, partially covering his ears and forehead, bright blue eyes, and a stubby nose, set above a set of white teeth. Familiarity washed over the detective, a sensation as unpleasing as a blast of water from the river. Where did he see this face before?
"Excuse me, sir," said the fair-haired mother, putting her hands on her son's shoulders. "Would you like to come to our place to warm up?"
"My cousin and I are trying to find somewhere to stay—"
"Oh, I'm sure that could be easily arranged."
"Thank you, ma'am."
She beckoned to them to follow and together, they were led by her to their cottage. It was separated from the rest of the village by a short painted fence and sat on the edge of the forest, its windows reflecting the green vegetation. Along the fences were rows of garden beds, each one planted with colourful flowers or luscious vegetable plants. As they walked up the stone pathway, they were greeted by buzzing bees and sweet, aromatic scents, which eased their spirits instantly.
A key was produced from the lady's pocket, the oak door thrown open, and in they went. The inside of the cottage had two roomy bedrooms, a messy kitchen, and a cozy living room, its fireplace no longer ablaze. Moving over to the window, Sigerson saw a smaller shed, protruding out from among the flowers.
"That's the bath-house," the lady said, noticing his curious gaze. "I'll be back in a few minutes with food."
Nodding and thanking her politely, Sigerson plopped onto the rug in front of the empty fireplace, keeping the trunk close to him. Turning to find his cousin missing from behind him, he turned and saw the two of them, Evelyn and the little boy, playing around in the homely garden outside. They were on a grassy patch of space, soaking in the soothing sunlight. Laughing merrily, Evelyn sat on the ground, watching the boy chase and attempt to catch a white butterfly like a playful cat enjoying the attention of others.
"So what's your name, sir?"
Sigerson hesitated for a fraction of a second, his back to her, then replied in a soft voice, "William Sigerson. My cousin's name is Evelyn Whitlock."
A mug filled with hot herbal tea was handed to him as he spoke.
"I'm Helen Hale. My son over there's named Thomas," she said, throwing a look at the boy, who had finally captured the butterfly and was now showing it to Evelyn enthusiastically through his cupped hands.
"Would you like to take a bath before dinner? You still seem awfully cold."
"Thank you, but I don't have a change of clothes—"
"I'll give you one," she said at once, disappearing into a room and returning with a bundle of clothing and a fresh towel.
"Here."
She held it out to Sigerson. Which he accepted appreciatively, then hastened away to start the fire for the bath. Sigerson, now standing alone at the window, stared down at the bundle of clothes in his hands. If he wasn't mistaken, another man was living under the same roof they were staying at.
"And that face," thought he. "I'm sure I've seen it before, but where?"
Mrs Hale called for him from the garden.
"Mulling things over a hot bath might work," mumbled the detective absent-mindedly, looking forward to his first relaxing bath in weeks.
Welcoming him graciously was the wooden bath-house, its earthy doors opening to reveal a world of swirling steam inside. Although the outside of the shed gave it a rough claustrophobic appearance, the interior contrasted far too greatly with the ulterior. As he stepped in, the smooth polished planks beneath his calloused feet made a refreshing change with the rocky ground they had been travelling on. Solid oak beams made up the foundation of the shed and held up its ceiling.
A huge tub of water lay in the left corner along with a boiler and bucket on the right, radiating warmth and steam around to the four corners of the bath-house. The moment he stepped into the water, every sense he possessed seemed to relax and loosen; the heavy weight that was laid on him vanished into thin air, as he melted away into a dream-like dimension, only accessible by calming his deepest thoughts.