Chapter 3: A Glint Beneath the Fog

The following days unfolded beneath a grey, dripping sky. The rain had softened to a whisper, yet it lingered like a forgotten sorrow across the city’s rooftops and narrow lanes. The scent of wet brick and coal smoke perfumed the streets, a blend as familiar to Londoners as the chiming of the clocktower.

Detective Alfred Seymour stood in the reading room of his residence, a modest yet refined suite tucked within the upper floors of a converted townhouse in Bloomsberg. The fireplace crackled low behind him, casting amber light against the heavy curtains and the carved edges of his desk. Scattered across the surface were sketches, notes, and a freshly written transcript—Francis Ashford’s summary of the Alden and Firth sighting.

There it was again: the same man, the same stillness, the same inexplicable aura of presence without action. The kind of quiet that unsettled a watchful mind.

Alfred reached for the cup of coffee resting beside a stack of old case files. Strong, dark, with a touch of cardamom—its aroma curled into the air like a whisper of thought. He sipped slowly, eyes drifting to the silver ring Esther had mentioned. A ring on the index finger—silver, possibly crested. Unusual, deliberate.

“Intentional,” he murmured aloud. “He wants to be noticed, but only just a bit.”

A knock sounded at the door downstairs. Alfred straightened slightly, setting his cup down with practiced grace.

He descended to the entry hall and opened the door to reveal Francis Ashford, again impeccably neat despite the weather. A touch of rain clung to his shoulders.

“Detective,” Francis greeted. “Apologies for the hour, but I thought you’d prefer this in person.”

“You do seem to favour dramatic entrances,” Alfred said dryly, gesturing him in.

Francis entered briskly, removing his hat but not his gloves. “You’ll want to wear gloves as well before handling this. It may be nothing, but it carries a certain… tone.”

Alfred raised a brow but complied, slipping on his own fine black gloves from the side table.

Francis unwrapped the parcel carefully on the drawing room table. Inside, protected in glassine and linen, lay a single flower—deep violet with a pale, delicate throat. Belladonna.

Beside it, another note, written in slanted script on parchment: “Even beauty bears poison.”

Alfred’s eyes narrowed. “Belladonna,” he said under his breath. “Deadly nightshade.”

Francis nodded. “Found beneath the same cellar grate—Alden and Firth. No one saw who left it.”

“In the language of flowers,” Alfred murmured, fingers gliding over the edge of the envelope, “Belladonna speaks of danger in disguise. Poison hidden in elegance.” sighting.

Francis nodded. “A message meant to be read by someone who’d understand it.”

“Someone like Mr. Thorne.”

Francis hesitated. “You still believe he is connected to this?”

“No,” Alfred replied evenly. “But I believe he was meant to see something. He noticed the ring. He spoke of a man whose silence weighed heavier than presence. And now a flower appears beneath a cellar gate...”

“And you intend to tell him?”

Alfred glanced out the window toward the fog. “I intend to ask.”

Later that afternoon, The Blossom & Verse

The bell above the door sang its gentle chime as Alfred stepped inside. The air was warm with the scent of hyacinth and cedar, delicate and grounding all at once.

Esther Thorne stood behind the counter, arranging pale lisianthus with sprigs of white heather. His golden curls caught the soft lamplight, and his apron was dusted faintly with soil. He looked up, offering that ever-gentle smile.

“Detective Everhart, would you like tea?"

“That would be pleasant but I am in quite a hurry,” Alfred replied, setting down his umbrella. “And I’ve brought something for your opinion.”

Esther raised a brow, curious. “Something floral, I hope?”

Alfred approached and, with careful motion, withdrew the protected envelope. “Belladonna,” he said softly. “Left near Alden and Firth. Along with a message.”

Esther’s fingers hovered over the glassine, but he didn’t touch it. His expression shifted—not fear, but recognition. A subtle tension behind his eyes.

“Belladonna…” he echoed. “Even beauty bears poison—I know the phrase. My mother used to say something similar.”

“She was fond of flower language?” asked Alfred

“She believed flowers spoke truths people were too polite to say aloud.”

Alfred studied him quietly. “And what truth do you think this one speaks?”

Esther’s gaze lingered on the deep violet bloom. “That something is coming,” he said softly. “And it’s hiding behind something lovely.”

Alfred nodded. “Then it’s best you stay watchful. If anything seems unusual—anything at all—I want to know immediately. Not the local patrols. Me.”

Esther met his gaze steadily..

“I will,” he said. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”

“It’s not just trust,” Alfred replied, his voice a touch lower. “It’s caution. The kind that keeps people alive.”

Esther’s smile returned, faint but honest. “You’re not as cold as you seem, Detective.”

“And you,” Alfred said as he turned to leave, “are far more observant than you let on.”

As the door closed behind him, Esther remained still for a moment, his mind replaying the image of the Flower