Part Seven– Inside the Coach
The coach rattled down the brass-lined street, its wheels kicking sparks against the cobbles. Inside, the air was close with pipe smoke. Inspector Raleigh Moring leaned back against the leather seat, one hand gripping his cane, the other tapping ashes into a chipped tin tray he carried everywhere.
His gray beard was trimmed close, though the scars along his jaw made him look as though he'd once been carved open and badly sewn back together. He squinted through the haze with pale, heavy eyes—eyes that had seen too many corpses and never quite forgotten any of them.
Opposite him sat Detective Albert Reed, a man who seemed allergic to smoke yet endured it with a smile. Twenty-seven, sharp-featured, his blonde hair tied neatly at the nape.
The city loved him, the papers adored him—an ambitious upstart who had arrived in IronClover only three years ago and in that short time solved cases that had baffled the old guard. His steel-blue eyes were restless now, skimming the passing streets outside the window as though the city itself were a puzzle waiting to be cracked.
"You're poisoning the air again," Albert said lightly, waving away the smoke.
"Better smoke than silence," Raleigh muttered, clamping the pipe back between his teeth. "Silence in this town means another body."
Albert smirked but didn't argue. Their partnership thrived on this friction: Raleigh's cynicism a stone wall, Albert's determination a blade always pressing against it. They were a study in contrast—one all smoke and scars, the other all polish and promise—but together they balanced the scale between resignation and resolve.
The coach lurched over a pothole, jolting Raleigh's cane against the floor. He winced and shifted, muttering curses under his breath. Albert leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp.
"You've gone over the Hanns report again," he said softly, not as a question but as a fact.
Raleigh puffed once, scowled. "And what good has it done? Nothing in those pages makes sense. Blood drained, yet no bite marks, should have been a case closed right from the start. Widow and boy missing. The young heir alive but claims he remembers nothing." He spat the words like gristle. "It's a mess."
Albert's lips curved, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. "That's because it isn't just a mess, Raleigh. It's something new. And that means it leaves a trail—we just have to know where to look!"
The inspector narrowed his eyes at his partner. He hated how easily the young man found hope in smoke and shadows. Yet, deep down, some part of him was glad for it.
"Hope'll get you killed in this city, lad," Raleigh said. "Mark my words."
Albert leaned back, unfazed, and tapped the glass to draw his partner's attention to the newspaper headline pasted against the vendor's stall they rolled past:
"Jonathan Hanns — Sole Survivor."
"The boy," Albert murmured. "He isn't just surviving. I sense there is more."
Raleigh didn't answer. He only drew in another drag of smoke, exhaled slow, and let the coach wheels carry them deeper into IronClover's restless heart.