Snapdragons

The Delight of Surrey

The Deighton summer home was constructed out of stone. Not hostile London brick, but rocks that tell stories. Rectangular in shape and basic in appearance, it had an ancient quality. Nevertheless, it was grand.

And Alistair? Alistair was coated in cold sweat and afraid that if he spoke nothing but a croak would emerge from his lips. Luckily, the long, winding road to the house was shaded by tall trees and, regardless of its steepness, seemed like a lovely, appeasing walk. So Alistair thanked the carriage driver, grabbed his luggage, and started up the dirt path.

From above the bushes and trees, the summer house sat on its hill like a king on his throne. Well, maybe less elegant than that, but it was framed majestically by its surroundings nevertheless. The sky was a bright blue, like the flax flowers that sprouted from the ground. In the foliage, squirrels and chipmunks darted around and an occasional butterfly fluttered along. Wildflowers dotted the grass and rebelliously expanded onto the path every now and then. Some had white petals. Agatha would not approve.

Alistair's breathing became heavier as he neared the house. Perhaps walking wasn't as lovely as it seemed, given his lack of stamina. His gasps evaporated into the warm air. Cold or warm, he wished his body would choose one and stay loyal to a temperature.

Near the top of the hill where the road widened into a circle, he stopped. There was a small garden in the center of the circular road confined by a low, decorative fence. Inside of it, morning glories thrived in different colors; blue the same shade as the sky, light pink, magenta, and brilliant purple. But they looked to be shriveling, their time almost up. He blinked, smiled, and moved on. Dreams aren't the real world.

Alistair made his way to the front door, climbing cracked stone steps. The home was unusually ancient for the tastes of upper class folk. Perhaps the secluded land was what appealed to the Deightons, with barely a neighbor in sight. Or perhaps the home was a purchase of opportunity. Perhaps the wealthy family saw no better place to spend the warm months than a house on the only hill in the area, high above everything and everyone else. Or perhaps that was Alistair's mind creating an antihero.

There was a moment of hesitation, before knocking on the door. The hope was that nobody or very few people would be there, but somebody did, in fact, answer the door. An older lady stood, stared, and looked rather disappointed. She had frizzy gray hair and what seemed to be a permanent frown.

"I do not believe we were expecting any guests," she said. Her words were cold. Alistair shifted his luggage awkwardly in his sweating palms.

"My name is Mr. Fairfax. I was sent here by Edw—the younger Mr. Deighton. We work together, you see," Alistair sputtered, his voice still warming up to the idea of being used. Curse his awkwardness. And curse this untimeliness, too.

The lady, who must have been a maid, looked Mr. Fairfax over, raising her eyebrows. "Come in, I suppose. But the Deighton family is staying here at the moment. I am unsure of what they'll do with…you." She paused before saying the last word, glancing at the guest with disapproval. It was not like Alistair was poorly dressed or behaving unpleasantly. However, he was certainly treated as such by this woman.

The inside of the home was simple and comfortable but still evidently decorated with a large budget in mind. The windows were opened to allow the occasional breeze to pass through and rustle the sheer lace curtains. Several settees lined walls and sat in corners. Window seats were lavishly adorned with cushions and pillows. And the books. Even from the entryway, bookcases were beautifully visible. Though they did look a bit…untouched.

The maid led Alistair through the house and to a closed door near the back of the main hallway. She knocked twice and then waited for a gruff, muffled voice that told her they could come in. The door was opened to reveal what must have been an office, though Alistair couldn't see what the point of having an office in a vacation home was.

The room was small, covered in windows that revealed a pretty field, and in the center sat a thick desk. Behind the desk sat a short man with graying hair and, identical to the maid, a permanent frown. Alistair figured this must be Edwin's father. Although, he had envisioned a more…handsome and eccentric man.

The elder Mr. Deighton looked disappointed. Maybe that was just the general mood at the Deighton summer home.

"Who is this?" Mr. Deighton asked, squinting his wrinkled face. He truly was a formidable man, both in looks and attitude.

"Uh…Alistair Fairfax, sir. I was told to come here by—"

"Fairfax? So you are the competition in the world of detectives?" Why had everyone been so reluctant to use names? Alistair was growing tired of being referred to as "you" constantly.

"Well, I wouldn't call it 'competition'—" Alistair began, but was interrupted once again.

"That son of mine is being nothing but a pain again, I see. You should know, though, that he has no interest in befriending you." This Mr. Deighton asked no questions. It appeared that it wasn't strange to him that Alistair had just shown up at his vacation home randomly.

And although Alistair had not been prepared to deal with such a rude person (nor had he been prepared to deal with anyone at all), something made him hysterically angered by the way he was being treated. Laughter bubbled its way up his throat and it took an immense amount of willpower to push it back down.

"Oh, really?" Alistair questioned with heat. "Damn it, I thought your son and I had something good between us."

Those words made the elder Mr. Deighton pause what he was writing. His pen floated in midair above messy cursive writing and his eyes slowly drifted up with anger or…curiosity?

"Mr. Fairfax, I dare say you have some nerve," he grumbled. His eyes were a piercing blue. Thank God Edwin didn’t have those glacial eyes that had the ability to make anyone twice as frightening as they already are. "If it is due to my son's invitation that you arrived here then, by all means, stay in my home for as long as you wish. But know that your career is nothing compared to Edwin's. Stay out of his way, Mr. Fairfax."

Your son seems to be the one getting in my way repeatedly, Alistair thought but most definitely did not day. Instead, he gulped, nodded, and was escorted out by the maid. As they were leaving the office, Mr. Deighton called out.

"Find him a suiting room. Nothing too fancy."

…

The upstairs was bright and airy. The center hall allowed sunlight to seep in through tall windows and it was all so tranquil and all so pleasant that Alistair might have been able to truly enjoy himself if he weren't being haunted in every way possible. Surely, this would be helpful, though. Some sunshine and time off could be beneficial, if certain people could be ignored.

"This is one of two guest rooms. You can stay here. There is another empty bedroom besides the guest rooms but that was…" The maid's voice trailed off. Alistair quickly understood what she meant to say, though. Edwin's bedroom.

The guest room was painted a buttercup yellow and was mostly bare besides a white wire framed bed draped in sheer curtains, a night stand, a settee, a window seat, and built in bookshelves with, unfortunately, very few books. Only one painting hung on the wall; a copy of Chaudet's A young girl playing with canaries. Alistair decided he would call the guest room the "canary room" for that reason along with the paint color.

"This will do," he told the maid who seemed exceptionally satisfied with that decision. It was a comfortable room and refusing to take it would just be a bother. The maid smoothed her apron and gave a tight-lipped smile.

"Good. Now, I suppose it would be rude to not offer you tea. Once you are situated, come back down stairs," she said, turning back toward the hall. As she left, Alistair could hear her mutter, "Since nobody else in this house knows how to treat a guest."

Vacationing might not turn out to be as awful as its first impressions. But still Alistair could not ignore how his life had been feeling. Like he was trying to embroider, to draw a picture in thread, but had made far too many mistakes. So he did everything he could to undo the crooked stitches, removed the needle to wedge it under the string, painstakingly pulled to loosen the problems but to no avail. The picture was messier and the scissors beckoned to be taken into hand.