It was the sixth murder in two weeks, and she was tired of it. So many years spent in the force, so many detectives working on the case, and still they had yet to catch the culprit. Dragging her fingers through messy, nutmeg-coloured hair, Lieutenant Elena Clarke was frustrated, exhausted, and most importantly: very, very hungry. But when one doesn’t have a choice, one just has to keep soldiering on.

Glancing around the room, she noticed that her men were either asleep at their desks or staring blankly into space. She sighed and slammed her casebook shut, startling them awake. They shouldn’t be here, she knew, when their families and hot dinners were waiting for them at home. Resigned, she gave them permission to retire for the rest of the night.

The relief on her subordinates’ faces were immediately obvious, and the flurry of papers and pens being stowed away into bags would have amused Elena if not for her concern over the case. She had to admit that it wasn’t just the murders themselves that worried her, although that was definitely a source of distress, what with men - strong, healthy, youthful men - vanishing off the streets and found dead a couple of mornings later. There were no signs of foul play, no injuries or wounds anywhere. Oddly enough, the victims were also found without a single piece of clothing on them, with a carefully placed purple flower protecting the last of their dignity. 

Her colleagues had refused to look at such a difficult case, leaving her to struggle on her own.

Gathering her things in her briefcase, she strode out of the precinct. A blanket of thick fog had wrapped itself around the city, sneaking through the streets and choking any passers-by who dared to venture out this late at night. The only source of light were the flickering gas-lit lamps that lined the streets. Mist settled on Elena’s coat like a thin veil, chilling her to the bone. Steeling her nerves, she started her journey home.

How long had she been walking? It was impossible to tell whether she was headed in the right direction. She surveyed her surroundings, trying to get her bearings, but even the lamps had succumbed to the damp chill and were snuffed out. As she blindly stumbled forward, she reached out in hopes of touching something, anything. 

When she first saw a flickering lamp in front of her, she wondered whether she was dreaming. Rubbing her eyes, she peered through the fog to ascertain that the yellow-orange glow was still there. As she drew closer to it, she realised the lamp was connected to a hand, then to an arm, and as her gaze moved up, she met the eyes of a rather amused woman.

“Can I help you?” The woman asked, her lopsided smile creating a dimple in her cheek. Her eyes were golden-brown, reflecting the light from her lamp, and her skin was smooth and fair. Elena noticed that she was not dressed for the weather, only clad in a thin blouse and a long skirt that swished when she moved, and yet the woman did not appear cold in the slightest.

“I-if you don’t mind, miss,” Elena ventured. “Could I borrow your lamp for just a moment? I just can’t find my way home in this ridiculous fog.”

The woman laughed and tossed her long, black hair behind her, and her eyes shone just a little bit more. “Fog? Whatever do you mean?”

“The f-” Elena glanced around her in confusion. Just a few seconds ago, the streets were dark and impossible to navigate, yet now… The street lamps burned bright, enveloping the city in their warmth. Elena could clearly see office workers walking home, students chatting merrily amongst themselves, couples talking quietly as they held hands or kissed under lamp-posts.

“What in the world-?” When she turned back, the woman had vanished. Absolutely flummoxed, Elena spun in a circle, but the woman with the lamp was nowhere to be found.

Elena never had the chance to acquire her name.

A week and four deaths later, they met again. Elena first spotted her across the funeral hall, a pale woman clad in black and clutching a bouquet of flowers. It was impossible to miss her beauty even when it was covered by a thin veil. She wondered whether the woman was somehow related to the deceased, one of the murder victims she had found over the week.

Quietly approaching the woman, Elena cleared her throat to politely announce her presence. The woman turned, her eyebrows raised, and smiled in recognition. “What a coincidence, miss…”

“Murray,” the woman offered. “Amelia Murray. Nice to meet you again, Lieutenant Clarke.”

Elena was thrown; how did this woman know her name? “I heard you’re the one in charge,” Amelia continues, reading her mind, “and you do look quite spiffy in that uniform of yours.” Approaching her, she reached out and smoothened out the lines on Elena’s collar, a smirk playing on her lips.

Face flushed red, Elena averted her gaze and glanced at the flowers arranged on the coffin. There was something familiar about them, their shape and colour, although in her haze she couldn’t remember exactly what. “Those are some beautiful flowers. You must have known him quite well.”

“One could say that.” Amelia patted her cheek and stepped away; Elena fleetingly caught the sweet scent of apples as she did so. “I should be leaving now. My flowers just cannot survive without me.”

“Are you a florist?” Elena asked, intrigued. She looked at the flowers again, forcing herself to recall when and where she had last seen them. “Did you grow those yourself?”

“Certainly. Not many are well-versed in the cultivation of such flowers, and even fewer understand how to use them properly.”

“For example,” Elena prompted, pointing to the bouquet, “this is…”

"Colchicum autumnale,” Amelia finished. “A Polish cryptologist, Rózycki, once said it would suffice to bite into and suck at a couple of stalks in order to attain eternity."

Elena watched her uneasily. “What did he mean by that?”

Amelia sent her a sly grin and ran her hand along the coffin before turning to leave, deciding to leave her question unanswered. “Until next time, Lieutenant Clarke.”

Staring at the mysterious woman’s retreating back, Elena wondered whether she might have just met her killer. And even worse, she might be falling for her. 

By Ashley Lim