THE EVENTS OF THE HARGRAVE MURDER

THE EVENTS OF THE MUCKRAKE ALLEY

Henry stared at the empty space beside him, the cotton sheets rumpled from his restless sleep. Ann's absence still felt like a hollow ache. His gaze drifted to the wooden post at the foot of their bed, where the small bird she'd carved for him hung silently. Its usual cheerful presence now felt like a poignant reminder of the distance between them.

With a sigh, he tossed off the covers and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Rubbing a hand through his brown hair, he tried to shake off the lingering fogginess from last night's ale.

As he stood, his eyes fell on a parchment lying on the stool beside the bed. Curious, he picked it up and read: "Help Needed. Private Investigator for Hire. Discreet Inquiries Conducted."

A faint memory stirred-Thomas's words from the night before echoed in his mind: "I know a guy..." Thomas had mentioned someone who could help him unravel the mystery surrounding Ann and had pressed this parchment into his hand before they parted.

Henry's heart quickened as he folded the parchment and tucked it into his pocket. Perhaps this was the lead he needed.

He glanced at the address on the parchment and cursed under his breath. "Muckrake Alley"-the name alone conjured images of poverty and despair, a notorious slum on the outskirts of town known for its lawlessness.

With a resigned sigh, Henry dressed quickly and set out into the chilly morning air. His journey took him through winding streets that gradually decayed into cramped, dirty alleys. As he turned onto Muckrake Alley, the stench of rotting waste and saltwater from the nearby River Wythenshawe filled his nostrils.

Damp, slippery cobblestones led the way as the alley loomed ahead, flanked by dilapidated tenements with narrow windows like empty, watchful eyes. Heads poked out from doorways, hostile faces scrutinizing him as he walked past.

"What're you doin' 'ere?" someone shouted, but he ignored the jibe.

Through the squalor, a faint hint of freshness lingered on the salty breeze from the river, reminding Henry that beauty could sometimes be found even here.

As he made his way down the narrow alley, Henry spotted a man sitting on a crate, pounding out a lively rhythm on a worn drum. He approached cautiously, noting the man's skeptical look as he drew near.

"Excuse me, mate," Henry said, "I'm looking for Raven's Rest. Know where it is?"

The drummer's eyes narrowed, sizing Henry up before pointing to a large, ramshackle building at the alley's end. "That's the place. Can't miss it."

Henry nodded his thanks and approached the building, its weathered sign creaking in the breeze: "Raven's Rest." From inside, the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses spilled into the street, the cacophony a stark contrast to the isolation outside.

As he hesitated by the door, his gaze caught the eye of a small man strumming a guitar near the corner of the room. For a fleeting moment, they shared a wordless glance before Henry steeled himself and pushed open the door.

Inside, the noise was overwhelming. Men chanted and argued, voices rising and falling in chaotic rhythms. Conversations clashed over politics, taxation, and the latest rumors from the Continent. Some shouted about the enclosures, the wool trade, and the Navy's exploits, their fists pounding tables in passionate bursts.

Amidst the noise, the small musician plucked out a melody on his guitar, barely audible but persistent.

Navigating through the crowded room, Henry reached the counter, catching the bartender's attention. The muscular man sported a thick, unkempt beard and a tattoo on his bicep that looked like a child's crude drawing.