Snapdragons

Gates that Seperate

It wasn't night this time, but the air was warm and humid, just like it had been a week ago on August thirteenth. The sun shone low to indicate the evening time settling in, but it wasn't dark. Plenty of people bustled around, returning from work or headed to work if they owned a night pub or had any other job that occupied late hours. Among the bustle of people were Edwin Deighton and Alistair Fairfax.

Alistair was sure that if it were dark out, he would have been transported back to the night of the carnival. People all around, warmth lacing the streets, and a casually dressed Edwin. Edwin always resembled someone who might gamble into the night, playing wisely with his cards, ladies by his side, embarrassing old men with their own stupidity. In the summer heat, he didn't bother looking professional.

The walk felt unusually assured, easy. Each motion was thoughtless, in place. But that was physically. Inside, Alistair's mind swarmed with white noise. "Do you believe we'll find anything dangerous or suspicious while searching Mr. Barlow's hideaway?" Alistair spoke, willing to say anything to bribe the buzzing in his skull  to come to a stop.

"It's likely, I'd say." Edwin's words were slack, they didn't exhibit any calculated precautions.

"But it also seems likely that Ms. Snapdragon would tell lies," Alistair said, relieved after Edwin's low voice had flooded his mind.

"I beg to differ. Demanding that someone other than just yourself be arrested hardly seems like a plea for mercy to me."

Alistair didn't think that needed a response, but the sounds of turning wheels and closing doors weren't enough to fill the holes where quiet had let an inept lull dig. And the holes that had been dug to keep the night of the carnival out of his mind began to get shallower. Neon lights whirled in his head. Why me? Alistair thought. Why does he know me? When did the kindling become a blaze?

It seemed that all Alistair could see were carousels and bright gowns and cigarette smoke. That's why he wasn't paying any attention when an agitated gray-haired man pushing a peddler's cart came rushing down the sidewalk and right toward the lost-in-thought Alistair. A tower of cloth crowded Alistair's view, he felt himself jerk backward, and the cart's wheels nearly crushed his shoes.

"Watch where yer goin', young man!" The gray-haired man scolded as the cart dramatically veered out of the way. Alistair had been pulled back by Edwin, who grasped his elbow. "Careful," is all Edwin said. Careful, careful, careful.

"P— pardon me," Alistair said weakly.

The gray-haired man nodded and continued pushing his cart. But Edwin's grasp lingered as if he were sure another peddler was going to sprint down the sidewalk. Alistair let him touch until his hand slipped away, leaving a ghost of warmth on his arm.

Alistair was still shaken up when Edwin started their next conversation, this one stranger than the last.

"What is your favorite flower, Alistair?"

Flowers? After what had happened just a week earlier? Edwin was a peculiar person, but whether he understood his insensitive words or not was something of a mystery.

"Uh…my mother believed that red and white flowers would bring death, but she often admired black tulips and foxglove, so those, I suppose," Alistair spoke. As he did so, he suddenly remembered something that might have been disturbed by running into that peddler's cart. He felt his pocket. It was still there.

"Foxglove suits you. I'm fond of morning glory, myself."

Morning glory flowers are vibrant, resistant, sweetly fragrant at night until kissed by the morning sunshine. Alistair couldn't really see Edwin admiring them. They seemed too flawless, too dynamic, and too similar to Edwin himself.

"Morning glory? An interesting choice." What Alistair didn't add was that the flower that he felt would better match Mr. Deighton was snapdragons.

The sun fell lower and lower, casting long shadows of figures over the pavement and making them look like creatures that children would have nightmares about. Rather than walking the rest of the way, Edwin paid for a carriage. Alistair thanked him. If they had walked the ten blocks, it might have been dark by the time they arrived. And Alistair often got tired easily. Perhaps Edwin knew that.

The carriage traveled into the outskirts of an industrial district where tenements and clothes factories were occasionally crowded by gated mansions, not too large but stately nonetheless. In this part of the city, the air smelled faintly of lead and oil.

The ride was silent, which was preferable for two crime solvers. Time to take in the scenery and imagine what role it played in the case was crucial for them. Darkened brick, smog, iron gates, broken glass. A life of few elated memories.

The carriage came to a stop, wheels groaning momentarily before falling quiet. Edwin opened the door and got out first, let Alistair step out, and then closed the door behind him. The air was pungent with textile chemicals and mud. They stood before a slim but grand house of solid, cold brick. It was surrounded by a stone wall that was only interrupted by a gate with sharp points adorning the top.

Alistair stepped toward the gate and grabbed the metal. He rattled it but it didn't budge.

"You…you do not have a key, do you?" He asked quietly, already knowing what the answer would be. The owner had died months ago and the house was empty. It had only been a week since they had been given permission to search the empty home. Getting a key would be nearly impossible or an extremely bothersome process. They were there to break in.

Edwin shook his head, as predicted. The gate was over six feet tall and had few horizontal bars to use as footholds. The top was sharp and menacing. 

"Are you good at climbing?" Edwin inquired, eyeing the gate up and down. Alistair was going to respond with "not particularly," but that would be a lie. He was likely terrible at climbing. So Alistair simply shook his head.

Edwin knelt down. "I can give you a hand."

"How about you, though?" Alistair asked, standing uncomfortably.

"I'll be fine."

Edwin reached his hands out. Alistair glanced to make sure nobody was walking by. He knew he would feel bad, stepping on Edwin. But there really wasn't another choice. Spike one, spike 2, spike 3, spike 4. Alistair let Edwin grab his shoe and hoist him up.

Alistair grasped the top bar, one hand between spikes one and two, the other between spikes three and four. With lots of effort, and a bit more help from Edwin, he swung one leg over the cold metal, then the other, then dropped down on the other side.

Suddenly, as it settled in Alistair's mind that he was standing alone on unknown, possibly murderous territory, behind a locked gate that he couldn't get back over without help, he felt uneasiness ruffle his hair and disturb his thoughts. Be quick, Edwin. Please. He found himself pleading for someone possibly just as dangerous as whatever laid inside the awaiting house.

Luckily, Edwin didn't have much trouble at all. He easily avoided the cold spikes and landed on the other side.

"Are you ready then, Alistair?"

They stared up at the looming structure. Alistair felt in his pocket again. His fingers met cool metal. As long as he had it, he could defend himself.

"Yes."