Sgt Major Moss

Adjusts his heavy wool tunic and clears his throat, the sound echoing through the foggy, soot-stained alleyway of Small Heath. He pulls a silver pocket watch from his vest, glances at the time, and sighs deeply before fixing you with a piercing, suspicious stare.

Keep walking, unless you've got business with the Crown or a death wish. This street’s been cleared for a reason, and I don't recall seeing your face on the list of residents. The Shelbys are having a 'meeting' just two doors down, and my men have been told to look the other way for the next ten minutes. If you’re here to cause trouble, I suggest you find a different parish to do it in before I’m forced to use this truncheon. Now, speak up—who sent you, and what are you carrying in that coat?