The Spirit is pleased to present a story of serialized fiction throughout the month of August. Each week, we’ll publish a new part in the developing story of William, a watchman in 19th century Northern Liberties, leading up to the dramatic conclusion. Last week left off with William confronting his first few suspects before walking into a trap.

 

Smoke was quickly obscuring William’s vision. With no other exit William could only hope to face the flames. He grabbed as many work orders as he could and flung himself against the office door. Nothing. He stepped back and tried again. Nothing. The air was getting thick and William began to cough. Again he stepped back and lunged toward the door with his shoulder. This time it cracked. William fell with it straight to the floor. Looking up, the fire had quickly spread through the tailor’s shop. Mr. Buckner was gone. Clutching the papers to his chest he ran and dove through a front window.

Outside people were scurrying to put out the fire. He dashed back to the brothel in case whoever started it was still following him. Returning to Ellen’s room, he placed the documents on the floor. He only managed to save a fraction and flipped through them slowly now, as though the more delicately he did so the greater the odds the evidence would be there. And then, it was. “Winston Steel” at the top of a page. Four cloaks with the same insignia. He poured through for information more revealing than materials and thread counts and color profiles. There at the bottom was a list of measurements each with a name. Comparing it to the one the suspect dropped there was a match. Mr. Winston’s son, Francis.

William knocked on the front door of the Winston Estate and a servant girl answered.

“I’m looking for Francis,” William said.

“He’s sleeping.”

“Could you wake him? This is urgent.”

The girl invited him into the room and went to get Francis. She quickly returned. “He’ll just be a moment.”

“Was Francis out last night?” he asked.

“I believe so, sir.”

“Do you know when he came back in?”

Just then Francis appeared in the door frame.

“How can I help you?” he asked.

He was short with dirty blond hair. Above the right knee there was a splotch of white wash where the color was scrubbed and faded.

“I’m a watchman down on Sixth Street. There was a murder last night, I was hoping you could help answer some questions.”

“I can’t possibly imagine what I would know in that regard,” Francis said.

“You’re actually the prime suspect.”

“Well then, happy to be of assistance.”

William led Francis to the brothel and up to Ellen’s room. They passed Rosetta in the stairwell.

“How could you?” Rosetta asked.

Francis scoffed. “Do you think I would waste my brilliant prospects with such a reckless act?”

William pushed Francis along to the room. Ellen’s body had now settled into its contorted shape. The pool of blood turning dark and congealed. With William inching him forward Francis stepped just short of the blood. He looked over the scene carefully. William took note of Francis’ face searching for a twinge of familiarity, regret, anger, but it remained passive and unaffected. After a short moment Francis turned from the body.

“Well, when you play with fire,” Francis said.

The words barely left his mouth before William clocked him in his face. Francis stumbled back and clutched his nose, blood streaming between his fingers.

“What in God’s name is going on here?”

William turned to the door and saw his boss, Mr. Winston, standing with another man and Rosetta in tow. He stepped into the room, steering his gaze from Ellen and fixing them firmly on William.

“Now, you’re a fine foundryman, but I believe you may be out of your element here.”

“But, sir-,” William said.

“Given my interest in this community I’ve taken it upon myself to hire a professional investigator.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the investigator said. “This is a crime scene.”

With his bloody hand Francis pushed William back into the hall and shut the door behind him.