THE EVENTS OF THE HARGRAVE MURDER

Shadows in the Evening

"SIGH"

It wasn’t easy being a Black woman in my line of work, not in these times, and certainly not in this town. Every step I took was watched, every word I wrote questioned. Most people didn’t believe someone like me could read, let alone wield a pen with purpose. But they’d learn—one day, they’d learn.

My eyes had long been set on the "Beauclairs". They were the town’s untouchables, a family whose wealth and influence reached far beyond the city’s walls. No one questioned their motives or dared cross their path. They lived in a world of their own, high atop their estate, and left the rest of us to wonder about the secrets buried within their grand walls. Rumors swirled around their name, but nothing concrete ever came to light. That’s how they kept it, hidden behind their riches, their power, and their absence.

The Beauclairs were more than just rich—they were elusive, almost ethereal. Their estate stood as a symbol of their status, and from that perch, they seemed to pull the strings of the town without ever getting their hands dirty. Whispers of political influence and financial manipulation followed their name, yet they stayed out of public sight. Their power was palpable, but their presence was almost nonexistent.

While many in town spoke of the Beauclairs with reverence, even fear, it wasn’t the family as a whole that piqued my curiosity. It was **Lady Evelyn Beauclair**, the youngest member of the family, who now commanded my full attention. For months, I had focused all my efforts on her.

Evelyn was not just another wealthy heiress. She had carved out her own influence, separate from the family’s legacy, by launching a highly successful line of clothing—an exclusive, lavish brand that the wealthy clambered over each other to wear. Her designs were seen as bold, almost scandalous, pushing boundaries in a way that caught the attention of not just the elite but those who whispered in hushed tones about her true nature. To the public, she was a celebrated figure, a symbol of elegance and sophistication, dressed impeccably in her own creations.

But I knew better. Something darker lingered behind those carefully constructed smiles, behind the perfectly tailored gowns. Evelyn was hiding something, and I was determined to find out what.

Currently, I had been watching Lady Evelyn even more closely. She was not like the other Beauclairs, who stayed hidden in their mansion like ghosts. No, Evelyn came down to town every night, mingling among the common folk as if she were one of them. But something about her meetings disturbed me, especially the men she met—always a different one each night. Each of them sat across from her, sharing whispered conversations, stolen glances, and sometimes, a glass too many of wine.

I pretended to take notes in my journal, but my focus was entirely on her. Evelyn’s clothing empire had made her even more of a public figure than the rest of her family, her designs worn by the wealthiest in society. I admired her, in a way, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to her than silk gowns and tailored jackets.

That’s when it happened.

Evelyn’s gaze lifted from her glass and landed squarely on me. At first, it was a passing glance, but then her eyes lingered. My heart quickened. I forced a smile, something that must have looked as strained as hers. “Lady Evelyn,” I said, my voice lighter than I felt. “I must say, I’ve been a great admirer of your dress designs. They’re simply marvelous.”

Her eyes narrowed, just for a second, but then the same forced smile crept onto her lips. “Is that so?” she replied, her tone smooth and unreadable. The weight of her stare lingered, and for the first time, I felt truly exposed.

I couldn’t stay. I had to leave before she asked more questions, before she dug into why I was really here. My journal clutched tight to my chest, I stood up quickly, offering a hasty nod before nearly stumbling over the chair behind me. The cold night air hit me the moment I burst out of the tavern, my breath coming fast.

I walked as fast as I could, my pulse racing with every step. Sweat clung to my skin, my dress damp from the sudden burst of fear. I cursed myself under my breath. "Why did I let her see me?" I muttered. It had been a stupid mistake, one that could cost me everything. But I couldn’t shake the sense of relief that, at least, I had finally learned the name of tonight’s companion: **James Cartwright**. A miller’s son, a man of middle-class standing. Tomorrow, I would find him and ask him the questions that burned in my mind.

By the time I reached home, the cottage was quiet, save for the soft snores of my husband. I missed him, missed spending time with him. I’d been so consumed by this investigation, I hardly saw him anymore. But there would be time for that later. Tonight, I had to finish my work.

I made my way to the barn, the small building we used as a stable and my own personal office. It was quieter there, away from prying eyes. I lit a lantern and set it on the wooden table, flipping open my journal to jot down the events of the night.

I was certain now—Lady Evelyn was killing the men she dined with. The pattern was too clear to ignore, and every new man who disappeared only confirmed my suspicions. If I could prove this, if I could bring her to justice, I would be acknowledged by more than just reporters. Detectives, like **Inspector Reginald Hawthorne**, the one who uncovered the Greystone Massacre, would finally take me seriously. His name carried weight in every corner of the country, and if I solved this case, mine would too.

I was deep in thought when I heard it—a knock at the barn door. I froze, my quill hovering over the page.

At first, I ignored it, chalking it up to the wind or some stray animal. But then it came again, louder this time.

My heart thudded in my chest as I listened, straining for any other sounds. “Henry!” I called for my husband, my voice thin in the silence. “Henry!” But there was no response, only the persistent pounding on the door.

I backed away from the table, my eyes wide, my breath coming fast. Could it be Lady Evelyn? Had she found me already? No, I told myself. That’s impossible.

The pounding grew louder, more insistent.

I clutched my journal to my chest and ran to the far corner of the barn, crouching low. My hands shook as I scribbled my last thoughts into the journal, my heart hammering against my ribs. *She’s found me. This could be my end.*

The door slammed open with a deafening crash.

---
I woke up to an empty bed. It had become normal by now—her side cold, already long gone before dawn. She’d been busy for weeks, always chasing something. It used to gnaw at me, but now it was just routine.

With a sigh, I got dressed and stepped outside. The air was crisp, but something felt wrong. My eyes drifted to the barn—its door slightly ajar, hanging off the hinge. Broken.

I frowned, heading over cautiously. Pushing the door open, I scanned the mess inside—the usual tools and scattered hay—but there was something that didn’t belong. Her journal.

I picked it up, my fingers trembling as I flipped through the pages. The more I read, the colder my blood ran. **Lady Evelyn. The missing men.** Her suspicions, her obsession—it was all there in her familiar handwriting.

By the time I closed the journal, my palms were sweaty, heart pounding.

“I need to find my wife.”

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