THE EVENTS OF THE HARGRAVE MURDER

THE BAR TALK

Henry stepped into the dimly lit bar, the warmth from the hearth embracing him as the scent of wood smoke and ale filled the air. The space was small but lively, with wooden beams lining the ceiling and worn tables scattered about. It wasn’t the grandest establishment, but it had character, the type of place where the common folk gathered after a long day of work. The musician in the corner added life to the room, his fingers dancing across the strings of a lute, plucking out a tune that made the patrons tap their feet and nod their heads in rhythm.

"Oi, mon ami!" a familiar voice called out.

I looked up and saw Jean-Marie seated across the room at a round table, waving enthusiastically. Surrounding him were a few familiar faces, each with a drink in hand. I sighed, walking over to join them, trying to shake the cloud that had been hanging over my head all day.

As I approached the table, my friend, a regular merchant with a round face and a thick coat, called out, "Why so lost, Henry?"

I forced a smile, waving off the concern. "It's absolutely nothing." I reached out to grab a drink from the table.

Jean-Marie’s hand shot out, stopping me just before my fingers wrapped around the mug. "Ah-ah! Whatever you drink, you pay for," Jean-Marie said in his usual playful tone, his thick French accent making his words even more light-hearted. "So, mon ami, you should know what you pick!"

I chuckled despite myself and let my hand hover over the different mugs, pretending to consider carefully. The rest of the group chuckled too, especially Thomas, the same friend whose wife had told me about my drunken state earlier.

Thomas leaned in, his breath smelling faintly of alcohol, as usual. "Been a month since you came out with us, Henry," he slurred, though not as drunk as the night before.

I ignored the comment, taking a sip from my wooden cup. The ale was bitter but familiar, a taste that brought me back to the routine I’d been neglecting.

The conversation around the table turned to Jean-Marie’s business, as it often did. Jean-Marie always danced around the specifics of his trade, leaving the rest of them guessing, which had become something of a game among the friends. Tonight was no different. The merchant pressed him for details, trying to figure out what exactly Jean-Marie did that kept his pockets so full. Jean-Marie, as usual, deflected with humor and a wave of his hand, but I wasn’t paying attention.

My mind was elsewhere.

Everything had been perfect. I had woken up with her by my side, her head warming my arm as she rested on it. Ann, beautiful as ever, sleeping peacefully beside me. She had promised to stay at home for a while, to spend time with me. I did the same, putting my business on pause. We needed this—after everything that had happened—her going missing, me getting arrested. We needed to reconnect, to heal.

The first week had been a blur of happiness. We stayed indoors, avoiding the world outside, just the two of us. No one else mattered, and for a time, it felt like we had escaped the cycle of disaster that had been dragging us down.

But things started to change after that.

The problems began when it was time for me to return to work.

"I’m off to work," I had said one morning, standing by the door.

"Alright," Ann had replied casually.

I frowned, confused. "Aren’t you going to work?"

"Uh, no. I want to stay in for a while," she answered, her tone flat.

That wasn’t like her. Ann never passed up an opportunity to work. But I didn’t press it. She was probably tired or stressed. I smiled, kissed her on the cheek, and headed out.

The next day was the same. She didn’t go to work, claiming she didn’t feel well. I laughed it off, playfully teasing her, and left for my own job.

But by the third day, I started to worry. She still wasn’t working. I touched her forehead, checking her temperature. She was a little cold, but not enough to warrant concern.

"Ann, are you sure you’re alright?" I asked.

"I’ll see a doctor soon," she had replied, her voice distant. "I’ll be fine."

Something felt off, but I didn’t want to push her. As a man, I avoided conflict when I could. I wasn’t the type to start an argument over something that might be nothing.

Still, the days went by, and nothing changed. I’d wake up, and she’d be gone. I’d come home, and she wouldn’t be there. We were living together, but we barely saw each other. The distance between us grew with every passing day, and I felt powerless to stop it.

Then one night, I woke up to find her standing at the door, fully dressed, her hand on the latch.

"Ann, where are you going?" I asked groggily, sitting up in bed.

"I’m going to work," she said without turning around.

I got up, my heart pounding in my chest. "Ann… what’s going on?"

She hesitated but didn’t answer.

"Your journal," I said, my voice softening. "You left it here."

She ignored me, stepping closer to the door.

My frustration boiled over, and before I could stop myself, I started shouting. "Are you seeing someone else? Is that it?"

She froze, her back still turned to me.

"I’m sorry," I muttered quickly, trying to calm myself. "I didn’t mean—"

But then she spoke, her voice icy and sharp. "Yes, Henry. I’m seeing someone else."

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and before I could respond, she opened the door and walked out, leaving me standing there, alone.

That was the last time we spoke.

I took another long sip of my drink, my chest tightening at the memory.

Jean-Marie leaned back in his chair with a smirk, breaking the silence. "Ah, women, mon ami. They’re a liability. You never know what they want or why they change so quick."

I looked up, eyes filled with uncertainty. "Do you think… do you think I did something wrong?"

Thomas shook his head, slamming his mug down. "Nah, Henry. Women—they’re wild, mate. Unpredictable. Ain’t nothing you can do sometimes."

I frowned. "You think it’s because of what happened with her and that Beauclair woman?"

Jean-Marie’s smile faded, his brow furrowing. "You should stay away from the Beauclairs, Henry. They’re strange folk. Everyone in town knows that."

Thomas nodded in agreement. "Yeah, mate. No good comes from dealing with them."

I sighed, the thought still gnawing at me. "Maybe I should talk to Lady Beauclair."

At that, all my friends spoke at once.

"No," Jean-Marie said quickly, leaning forward. "That’s a bad idea. You don’t want to get involved with those people."

Thomas nodded again, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Look, I know this is all twisted, but you don’t need to be poking around the Beauclairs. There’s another way."

I raised an eyebrow. "What other way?"

Thomas leaned in closer, his tone conspiratorial. "I know a guy. Deals with strange behaviors. Not the normal sort, but he can help. I’ll give you his address later."

For now, though, he pressed a drink into my hand. "Drink up. We’ll sort this out. But for now, drink."

I lifted my mug and drank, my mind still racing.

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