THE EVENTS OF THE HARGRAVE MURDER

AN EMPTY BED

I hadn’t seen her in weeks, at least not in any real sense. Her side of the bed was always cold when I woke up in the mornings, her spot by the hearth empty when I returned from work at dusk. My wife, always chasing the next story, the next lead, her passion for her work as a Black reporter taking her to places I couldn’t always follow. Not that I was complaining—she was making a name for herself, breaking through walls most people thought impossible, especially for someone of her skin.

I remember the whispers when I first married her, not just because she was a reporter, but because she was Black. Some people couldn’t quite understand why I’d fall for her, or why I wouldn’t mind the stares or the occasional insult. But what those people didn’t know was that she was everything—clever, fierce, and someone who could challenge me in ways no one else ever could. And I didn’t care about what the world thought. She was mine, and that was all that mattered.

Work as a carpenter and trader kept me busy enough. I made most of the money for us, but it didn’t bother me. In fact, I was proud of the balance we’d found, even if it meant only seeing her a few nights a week. The days passed easier when I focused on work, knowing that at least I’d catch a glimpse of her every now and then.

But now… now she was gone, and the only thing I had left was the journal she’d kept hidden. My chest tightened thinking about what I’d read, about Lady Evelyn Beauclair, and about the men who seemed to vanish after their dinners with her. My wife had been onto something, something dangerous, and I wasn’t sure if I was too late to save her.

I ran through the cobbled streets of the neighborhood, the uneven stones of a typical British state back in the day—rows of tightly packed houses, chimneys puffing smoke, and narrow alleys where children played. There was a chill in the air, and the mist clung to the ground, adding to my growing sense of dread.

I knocked on the door of a familiar house, the one belonging to my friend, Thomas. His wife opened it, her face weary from the early hour.

“Morning,” I said, a bit too rushed. “Is Thomas in?”

She sighed. “Still out cold from last night’s drinking, I’m afraid.”

“Shite,” I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my hair.

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, forcing a smile. “Thanks.”

I turned and left before she could ask more questions. There was no time for that. I walked faster, passing the market stalls as they opened for the morning, my mind racing with thoughts of Amelia. Where could she be? She didn’t have many friends in town—none, really. The way people looked at us, at her, made it hard for her to connect with anyone.

I found a stool in the village square, worn smooth from years of use, and sat down heavily. My head dropped into my hands. The only clue I had was the name from her journal. **Lady Evelyn Beauclair**. I knew that name. Everyone did. The Beauclairs were untouchable. Their mansion sat up on the hill, towering over the town like a fortress. People talked about them in hushed tones, but no one ever did anything to stir up trouble. Not me, not anyone. I kept my head down, did my work, and stayed out of it. But now, it was different. I had no choice.

“I need to find her,” I whispered to myself.

I stood up and flagged down a donkey rider passing through the square. “Take me to Montclare,” I said, naming the area where most of the upper class lived. The part of the village with the finest houses, French-style facades, and wide cobblestone streets lined with flower pots. He nodded and helped me up. The ride was short but felt like forever.