Page 7 of The Dark Hiss of Magic
Thane scratched his chin. ‘Interesting,’ he muttered. ‘He seems to be omitting the part where he had to be rescued by a middle-aged woman covered in cat hair.’
‘You took a dip in the River Tweed,’ I said. ‘And you were covered in cat hair, too.’
He smirked, then drew breath as if he were planning to publicly challenge Quentin Hightower’s version of events. ‘Don’t,’ I said in a low voice. ‘It’s easier for me if people don’t know what happened.’ I wanted to keep a low profile.
‘He’s lying, Kit.’
‘We know the truth.’ I gazed at Hightower. ‘And so does he, deep down.’
Thane’s expression darkened. My desire to stay under the radar of the folks in Danksville – and as a result allow Hightower to proclaim himself a conquering hero who could fight the depths of the River Tweed in ways that few other people could – clearly didn’t sit well with him.
‘It’s not a problem,’ I said firmly. ‘Come on. I need to go home and get out ofthese wet clothes.’
A voice floated towards my ear. ‘You’ll catch pneumonia long before you get to your street. So will the wolf.’
I turned to Trilby; they were holding out two steaming cups. Bless them. I didn’t ask what it was, I simply drained the contents of one of them in three gulps, revelling in the heat as it spread through my body. Thane took the other cup and did the same. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘This is delicious.’
Trilby smiled. ‘It’s my own personal recipe and it’s an excellent remedy for hypothermia.’ They held out two blankets that were draped over their arm. ‘You’ll need these, too.’
‘You’re amazing,’ I said gratefully.
‘You’ve known that for a while, Kit,’ they said.
True. I handed them the cup. ‘It’s worth saying aloud.’
Trilby’s smile widened. ‘Always.’
Quentin Hightower had clambered down from his makeshift pulpit and was making his way through the crowd. People were slapping him on the back and calling out congratulations; it was rare for someone to fall into the Tweed and recover, so they wanted some of his good luck to rub onto them. Either that or they wanted to bask in the glorious gaze of such a heroic and noble figure. Given my past exploits, I was hardly in a position to judge him or them.
As I turned away, I caught sight of four bobbing red hats moving through the stalls. I shivered – and this time it had nothing to do with the cold. ‘Somebody called the Redcaps?’ I asked.
They were marching towards us with their familiar body-collection wagon between them. They were dressed in uniform: black double-breasted suits and black shirts. Their shiny buttons were black and the long canes they were carrying were black. The only splash of colour on Coldstream’s collectors of the dead were their blood-red caps. For some reason, I always found those hats particularly gruesome.
The Redcaps performed a vital service. They removed dead bodies deftly, were professional in their approach and compassionate with shocked family members, but they unnerved me in ways I couldn’t explain. Maybe it was because they were the ones who’d cleared up the messes I’d made in my previous line of work. Their job felt too close to mine.
‘They were called in before Hightower’s death was confirmed?’ I asked Trilby.
‘Ah.’ They took off their hat and bowed their head to acknowledge the undertakers’ approach. ‘I don’t know who called them, but they won’t be here for Mr Hightower. They must be here for the other body.’
Thane and I stared at them. ‘What other body?’
‘Quentin Hightower didn’t die in the Tweed today,’ Trilby said quietly. ‘But unfortunately somebody else did.’
Thane appearedto have had enough of brushes with death for one day. He left of his own accord, squelching his way out of the market with his wet clothes moulded to his body and an unappealing tangle of gloopy river weeds trailing behind his left shoe.
I should have done the same; I knew that the sensible thing to do was to go straight home, change my clothes and head for a clinic to get my ankle wound seen to properly. Curiosity got the better of me, however, and instead I limped to the river’s edge to watch the Redcaps in action. It felt horribly unfair that Hightower had survived his encounter with the Tweed while another nameless victim had not.
There was no crowd this time, and no concerned onlookers: the victim was already dead and there was no exciting rescue operation to watch. A few morbidly curious people hungaround but their interest was detached and without the energy I’d witnessed after Quentin Hightower had fallen in.
The white sheet covering the corpse made identification impossible but I suspected that the victim possessed neither wealth, power nor the minor celebrity of a Hightower witch. Whoever the poor bastard was they were not considered important, but I knew from my own experience that somebody would care about what had happened to them. Somebody would be missing a friend, a family member or a loved one.
Under other circumstances I might have minded my own business but the effort I’d put into rescuing Quentin Hightower while not realising that somebody else was also in the river made me feel that I was already involved. I wasn’t ready to plod home and forget about what had happened.
Asking for permission to examine the corpse was asking to be denied, so I straightened my spine, pretended I wasn’t wearing river-sodden clothes and an old blanket, and marched towards it. I bent down and pulled back the white sheet, ignoring the astonished stares from the four Redcaps who were preparing the wagon a few metres away.
‘Oi!’ one of them barked. ‘What are you doing?’
I ignored the shout and gazed at the slack face in front of me. It was a man, probably in his late twenties. His wet hair was a dirty-blond colour, although I suspected it would be lighter when it was dry. His dark-brown eyes were open and already had the fixed glaze of death. A thin red line across his chin indicated an old scar.
