THE EVENTS OF THE HARGRAVE MURDER

A BOX OF CRAYONS

The punch landed hard on Angus’s jaw, jerking his head to the side. He staggered back a step, his hand rising instinctively to his scruffy beard as if to check the damage.

“You’ve got some bloody nerve, Snake!” the man bellowed, his face a mask of fury. “Sneakin’ into my storeroom, loungin’ around like it’s a bloody inn!”

Angus, unfazed, spat out a bit of blood onto the ground and rubbed at his jawline. “Aye, George,” he said with a faint Scottish lilt, the hint of a grin twitching under his thick beard. “Don’t recall your storeroom comin’ with a sign saying no guests allowed. Thought it was right cozy.”

“Get out before I use a broom on you next time!” George snapped, taking a threatening step forward.

Angus chuckled low, scratching at the coarse hair on his chin. “Right, right. No harm meant,” he said, raising his hands mockingly as he turned to leave.

He sauntered off, his coat swaying with each lazy step, unaware of the shadow watching him from a nearby alley.

Henry huddled in the dark, shivering slightly in nothing but his underclothes. He’d been robbed blind hours ago, left with nothing but his desperation. Summoning courage, he whispered hoarsely, “Angus.”

The man didn’t even flinch, continuing his steady stroll.

“Angus,” Henry tried again, louder this time.

The ex-soldier slowed slightly but didn’t turn, his broad shoulders shifting as if to shrug off the world. “I ain’t buyin’ what you’re sellin’,” he said flatly, his accent rough and clipped.

“I’m not selling anything,” Henry said, stepping into the dim light, his bare feet slapping the cold cobblestones. “Please, just—”

Before he could finish, Angus spun on his heel, his fists raised, stance solid. His wiry beard bristled as his sharp eyes locked onto Henry.

Startled, Henry stumbled back, raising his hands, palms out. “Hey, hey, relax. I’m not a threat,” he stammered. “I just—”

Angus stared at him for a moment before bursting into laughter, the sound rough and hearty. “You’ve gotta be kidding me!” he said, clutching his sides as his laughter echoed down the empty street.

Henry frowned, unsure of what was so funny.

“You just got fleeced by the local street rats, didn’t you?” Angus asked, wiping a tear from his eye. “They left you wanderin’ about like that?” He gestured at Henry’s threadbare underclothes, his beard twitching with amusement.

Henry’s cheeks burned, but he didn’t respond.

“Oh, aye, you’re not from here,” Angus said, still chuckling. “Anyone local knows better than to look like an easy mark.” He shook his head, the gray streaks in his beard catching the faint light. “So, what’s your story, eh? Why’re you tailin’ me?”

Henry swallowed hard, choosing his words carefully. “My wife,” he said, his voice low. “She’s missing. I need help.”

Angus’s grin faded slightly, though the amusement still lingered in his eyes. He let out a low hum, scratching at his beard. “A missing wife, is it?” he said finally. “Alright. But here’s the thing—I don’t do charity. If you want my help, you’ll have to earn it.”

“What do you mean?” Henry asked.

Angus smirked, turning back toward the street. “Follow me, and you’ll find out.”The alley was silent for a moment after Henry’s plea. Then Angus tilted his head slightly, his bearded profile just visible in the dim light. “Whoever told you I could help,” he muttered, “ought to keep their bloody mouth shut.”