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.
"Can I help you?" the bartender growled.
Henry unfolded the parchment and flattened it on the counter. "I'm looking for the person who runs this business."
The bartender's eyes narrowed, and his gaze snapped back to Henry, aggressive and probing.
He whistled, and two enormous men emerged from the shadows, intimidating in their size.
"What business do you have with him?" the bartender asked quietly, his tone low but menacing.
Henry stuttered, caught off guard.
"I—I don't know him. Just thought he could help me with something."
The bartender stroked his beard thoughtfully.
"Look, that man isn't someone you want to mess with. Shady as hell. He goes by Angus Nachash—Angus the Snake. You might find him lurking at the far end of Muckrake Alley."
Henry nodded, swallowing his unease.
"Appreciate the help," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
As he turned to leave, his gaze briefly met the musician's once more. The musician gave an almost imperceptible nod, his fingers pausing on the strings for just a moment before resuming the tune.
The bartender's voice stopped Henry just before he reached the door. "If you find him," he called, "tell him I need my money. Otherwise, he'll regret it."
With a slight nod, Henry stepped out into the alley once more, his mind churning with questions as he ventured further into Muckrake's labyrinthine streets.
The buildings grew more decrepit as Henry pressed deeper into Muckrake Alley, the stench of decay heavy in the damp air. Thoughts of Ann drifted through his mind. Was she safe? What was she doing at this very moment?
Suddenly, a girl appeared in his path. Her clothes were tattered, but her eyes sparkled with something sharp. She smiled sweetly, her expression almost disarming.
"You look a little lost," she said. "Need help, sir?"
Henry felt a flicker of hope. "Actually, yes—I'm looking for someone. They call him Angus the Snake."
She hesitated, eyes darting briefly before she replied, "Oh, everyone knows Angus. I can show you the way."
As they walked, Henry asked, "What's your name?"
"Belle," she replied, her smile lingering.
"Thank you, Belle. I appreciate this," Henry said, grateful for h guidance.
As they continued down the narrow alleys, she made small talk, her laughter echoing through the gloom. "You're not from this part of town, are you?"
"No," Henry replied cautiously. "Across town."
Belle chuckled. "Figures. Bet you get to eat well over there," she said with a hint of mischief.
He hesitated. "I guess so. I'm sorry…"
But her laugh was light, as if she was teasing. "Don't worry about it."
Eventually, she pointed ahead. "Just around the corner. That's where you'll find him."
"Thank you," Henry said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a few coins and handed them to her.
But before Henry could move, a voice called out from behind him. "Nice job, Martha."
Henry turned, startled, as a group of rough-looking children emerged from the shadows, their faces cold and calculating.
Martha—Belle, or whatever her name truly was—grinned, pocketing the coins without a second glance at him.
The boy with a knife stepped forward, pressing the blade against Henry's throat. "Now, hand over your bag," he demanded.
Henry complied, his pulse racing as he watched the boy toss the bag to a tall kid in the back, who must have been Jonathan.
Jonathan rummaged through the bag and scoffed. "It's empty!" he snarled, throwing the bag to the ground in disgust.
The knife-wielding boy glared at Martha. "What the hell, Martha? Who did you just rob?"
Henry raised his hands. "I gave her all I had," he said, voice trembling.
The group exchanged annoyed glances, and one of them muttered, "We're gonna be late. We can't go home with just this."
He eyed the few coins in Martha's hand with disdain.
The knife-wielder sneered, looking Henry up and down. "Well, if he's got nothing else, might as well take the rest."
He jerked his head. "Strip. Everything."
A knot of humiliation twisted in Henry's stomach as he hesitated, but with the knife pressing closer to his throat, he knew better than to resist.
He stripped down, each article of clothing snatched up by the children as they jeered and laughed.
Finally, left in his thin linen undergarments, Henry stood shivering in the cold.
Satisfied, the children dashed away into the shadows, leaving him abandoned and humiliated.
Hours passed as Henry lingered in the alley, the chill of the evening settling into his bones.
He thought of Martha—of her false smile, of the easy way she'd lied—and of Ann, the one he was really trying to find.
Suddenly, a woman's shrill yell cut through the night. "Get out, you filthy man! You've got no shame whatsoever!"
Henry turned to see a man stumble out of a nearby door, swatting away at a broom swung furiously by an older woman.
Just then, another figure charged into the man, punching him hard. "Angus, you son of a bitch!"
Henry's eyes widened, heart pounding as he recognized the name.